Believing Still
by shywr1ter
Summary: Based on Montana-Rosalie's AU "Believe Again." In the basement, a half dozen years after the world turned upside down for Tony & the team. Things change but life goes on, even for a guy whacked in the head by a flyin' engine. For his crusty Boss, too.
1. Ziva

_Disclaimer: NCIS characters and plot references merely borrowed. Opening lines of this story from "Believe Again" by Montana-Rosalie.  
_

**Important A/N:** This is sequel, of sorts, so will make much more sense if you read its genesis -- so **please read Montana-Rosalie's lovely story, _Believe Again_**, here on FFN as story ID #5047152, before you read this one. This story follows hers and liberally takes from it.

**UPDATE and WARNING: installments not posted in chronological order! **After posting the first sequel installment below, titled "Ziva," the other characters started intruding to fit themselves into this thing along the way. If you want to read the chapters in chronological order, it will be posted at the opening of each installment. So go to the last entry (currently, it's Ch. 7, Vance) and you'll find the updated order of posted chapters. Sorry for any confusion caused by the characters or me! (I would re-post in order but I really am too selfish to lose all the reviews attached so far...)

**Longer A/N:** I owe many thanks to Montana-Rosalie, who not only let me steal her story to keep going with it, she encouraged it! I read _Believe Again_ and not only found it to be as lovely as her other stories, but it made me believe that _Tiva_ was possible: they definitely had a connection, but it always felt to me to be work and team related, each of them so busy and focused as members of Gibbs' team it seemed their lives were too busy to really build another, non-work relationship too. Others authors certainly may have tried it, but _Believe Again_ was the first thing that made me really believe there could be a _Tiva_, probably because the circumstances force them to lose their status as teammates -- and where else could that intense connection go? So this led to another first for me -- an urge to continue the story. I confessed as much to poor Montana-Rosalie, who has been remarkably gracious about it and about sharing her fic. My many thanks again, M-R!

(and as usual, I also owe a thanks to Mari83 for patient reading, hand-holding, photography and always, always, for marzipan! :D)

So thanks to those reading -- and please let me hear from you! Any and all input craved and welcomed, and are very much appreciated. If you don't review but enjoyed this fic, then please at least leave Montana-Rosalie a review for _"Believe Again"_ -- there's so much to admire in that story!

**Believing still**

"_Ziva used to believe in many things, but fairy-tales were never among them. Now, when Tony is kissing her, half a year after she stopped believing in anything at all, the fairy-tale comes true, and nothing is wrong with the world._

"_Tony kisses her, and Ziva believes."_

I.

Another half year, the fairy tale has taken hold, and even a Mossad-trained warrior believes that the world can even be a hopeful place.

There is a rhythm to their lives now, a gentle cycle to their days that bring Tony and Ziva together and apart and together again in a soft cadence: awakening together, running or showering – or both – together, going in to work together ... then parting ways in the elevator, Ziva off at the second floor and into the squad room they used to share, Tony riding on up to three and to NSF, where he was easing into his role as analyst in the Antiterrorism unit.

_He'd first thought the job was a bone he'd been thrown, one he'd never have been offered if he'd just walked in off the street with only a street cop's credentials, even if his background was both federal and investigative. He didn't think they'd have made the offer at all, but was dead certain they never would have hired him as he was now if he hadn't been an NCIS special agent injured in the line, injured in his effort to protect a fellow team member. Even Gibbs' irritated growl – lecturing him that while NCIS might have given him an early pension and a pat on the head if he'd decided not to come back, it damn well didn't hand out honorary jobs and if he heard DiNozzo wasn't pulling his weight in NSF, he'd have to answer both to his new boss and to him, because Gibbs had trained him better than that – wasn't enough to convince him, deep down. But as always, Tony was unrepentantly Tony, and from his very first day, he blew into NSF with his usual irreverence and charm. _

_Only Ziva knew how much effort it took to seem so effortless._

But before long it was clear to his new unit, and to Tony himself, that his unique history as an NCIS special agent, and as both beat cop and detective in three city police departments, made his contributions a rare and valuable addition to the continually evolving training and security programs being developed within the Antiterrorism Department – so much so that some of his informal chats with MTAC analysts on the side quickly led to a genuine dispute between the department heads as to where the former field agent could best be used. One of the first times Ziva saw the old sparkle really return to Tony's eyes was his recounting of what happened when he'd been called to the Director's office: half expecting to be told that it was just too much hassle to keep trying to figure out how to accommodate his blindness, Tony had been the surprised recipient of the Director's mild consternation that his newest security force asset was the source of a staffing argument between NSF and MTAC.

Suddenly, Tony found he was _wanted_ for his expertise, not just tolerated for his past service – and that knowledge went far to heal a huge part of the wounds he still carried. Even more, they were _arguing_ over him, and nothing – not even Ziva's steady, abiding love, so freely and easily voiced now – had helped him more in recovering from the non-physical part of his injuries. DiNozzo was that rare field agent still working for the agency but no longer in the field, and since the Director agreed that his street sense was a good addition to the less battle-scarred analysts posted in MTAC, he was ordered "on-loan" to MTAC two mornings a week.

He was insufferable about it for at least four days, and Ziva had never so welcomed being driven crazy in her life.

II.

Twelve weeks into Tony's return to work he was scheduled into site assessment rotation with his unit, a few each month. The first couple times, Ziva worked as hard as she could not to let him see how edgy it made her, almost like his going back out in the field, but without her, without Gibbs, without real field agents, with only the others on the assessment teams. She knew she was being ridiculous; not only was he a part of a team, always with at least one or two others should even the slightest issue arise, he was part of pro-active law enforcement now, _before_ things went wrong, rather than picking up the pieces as they did – as he _had_ – investigating crimes. The assignments should not be threatening ones. Not like before. Not filled with guns and car chases .... or explosions. Especially, not with explosions.

_From the moment Tony had left the hospital, he pushed for independence, quietly stubborn and headstrong and nearly always no worse the wear for it. Ziva expected nothing less from him and knew that, if he knew the truth, that how sometimes his solo jaunts to work or the market or the coffee shop worried her more than his undercover missions or confrontations with escaped felons ever had, he would suspect she saw him as vulnerable now. And she would never, ever, let him think that._

But that first time he went on site, to an assessment in Annapolis, she paced, she fretted, she barked at the new guy and even went down to the gym to take out her anxiety on a hapless probie who unwittingly took on her offer to spar. The second time wasn't much better. Logically, she knew he would be fine; logically, she knew she would get used to it. But her logic was no match for her fierce, protective concern for someone she had so recently let in, so completely.

This was a whole new set of feelings for her, and she fought to understand them and get a better handle on her reactions. For her whole life, her friends and lovers and family were trained and capable of handling nearly any threat that would present itself, nearly able as she. While she had lost many people dear to her, it was a part of life in Israel, especially for her family, inextricably entwined with Mossad. Everyone there, young and old, lived within that landscape, knowing that danger was always only a moment or two away. People there learned to be ready for it, and the seeming resignation to it always hovered in their lives.

But then Ziva came to Washington, and NCIS ... and Tony.

Tony was an able officer; well trained, professional and responsible about keeping up training, he was a good agent and had been fully capable of looking out for himself. But Washington wasn't Israel, and professional training in law enforcement wasn't the same as being trained from the cradle to anticipate, especially for someone no longer on the same footing with the bad guys, with his former self. Ziva felt that difference every moment Tony was away from the Navy Yard; she dwelt on her fear that somehow, someone would take advantage of an agent no longer able to watch out for himself for the threats that might still be out there. She knew he was capable and fit for the assignment – she just didn't like the feeling that she was being denied the chance to be there for him, _with_ him, just ... well, just in case.

So those first times, when she was not out on a mission of her own, Ziva waited, adrenaline pumping as if she were on assignment, to hear he was back on the Yard. After a few more visits, all blessedly without incident, she was less obvious about watching for his return, but still did so. As best she could, she would note the car in which he'd gone and watch for it to reappear in its numbered bay, if he hadn't happened by or called first. The days he was posted to MTAC were the easiest, as she could check on his return by accessing the 'on duty' roster with a touch of her mouse. If he knew all she did, he kept it to himself; as he'd told her early on, it was both encouraging and embarrassing to think of her tracking his comings and goings, so just found it easier not to let on when he was aware of it. Gibbs, of course, sensed what had been happening, and had let her deal with those first few times in her own way, as long as they didn't interfere with his team's cases.

Ziva wasn't alone in her efforts, and she had good cover from the others, all determined to keep Tony close in their lives. Gibbs tended to make his way to MTAC for updates and assessments more often when Tony was there, passing by for only a word or two, but as always, making himself known and available for Tony's six, a strong steady presence; Abby and Ducky encouraged him to come visit their domains as he'd used to, and on a few occasions became resources for him as well, their scientific input put to good use in his new projects. But most touching and helpful and unflagging was the time and energy McGee offered him in seeking and building state of the art computer modifications even more sophisticated and versatile than had the IT personnel, all so Tony could access a very good deal of the information otherwise available only visually. It was clear that McGee had invested a lot of time in research and study to find the best. Tony repaid his efforts as he could on those occasions, once in a while, when Tim was wrestling with an assignment for Gibbs and coming up dry, by privately brainstorming with McGee for new angles, new answers – even if he still insisted it had to be done by 'campfire.'

Ziva could see that it all became a little easier, and a little more familiar, for Tony, for all of them, as the days and weeks went by. They were all settling back into a rhythm, their team no longer a team but more like an extended family, under the same roof but going their own ways. Different, new and untried ... but possible. And little by little, their lives got back to humming along in this new cadence. Not like old times... but nearly as real and true. And if her very warm, very private and very demonstrative assurances to Tony that she simply missed him and craved knowing what he was up to didn't completely extinguish his embarrassment, it certainly added to the magic of their lovemaking and, for those glorious minutes, showed him another little bit of heaven in her touch...

III.

Nineteen weeks after his return, he was brave enough to ask her if would she have him otherwise, brave enough to ask if their newly developing relationship was, for her, simply her guilt for how things had happened, or pity for his loss. "I might have visited the others in hospital, had it not been you," she said in her typically clipped assessment, "...but not every day."

She was brave enough to ask him if he'd be so settled and happy with just her, at least for now, if things had turned out differently for him. "Dating someone new every night and running from commitment hadn't been something I'd planned," he said solemnly, "it was just – safer." Letting his guard down, showing his emotions and need wasn't something he'd tried often and when he did, it hadn't gone well. So maybe ... maybe ... if things hadn't changed, he _wouldn't_ have changed.

_She loved him for his honesty._

But as he'd been quick to add, he _had_ been blown up – and at least at first, his dependency was obvious – so clear for the rest of the world to see. And he'd come back, was _still_ coming back; he'd survived the explosion and living without sight and had found that the world hadn't ended when he sometimes asked for help. "DiNozzo's Life's Lesson #13," he offered with a grin, "when you let yourself accept a hand from someone, sometimes you can get– and maybe even give– even more..."

Maybe even the knowledge that commitment wasn't always something to be avoided.

IV.

Twenty four weeks after Tony's return to work, Ziva found herself remembering her shifting and conflicting feelings for him, those first years. She remembered how she'd been drawn to him before, but not like this; before, their work intruded, their lives collided. They had teased and bickered and bantered. Tony had drawn her into competition for Gibbs' approval, when her need for such validation was long past; Tony had joked and mugged and irritated his way under her skin by being absolutely everything she'd always detested, while being maddeningly engaging as he did. In the squad room, during down time, no matter how confident she would act, she never felt she had the right footing with him – he was like quicksand, avoiding anything serious, feinting away from anything that might reveal the man lurking beneath the quick, engaging smile and movie quotes and immature ogling of anything young and female.

She knew there had always been something more there, between them; how else to explain that otherwise elusive bond, evident in the ease with which they fell into sync when a sudden threat arose or they approached an unsecured scene? Yet away from the immediacy of danger, even after a few years as partners, they were never on time with each other: when she would reach out to him, he'd miss it; when he showed her the greatest empathy and caring, she turned it away. Only days before the world had so completely changed for them, she had offered her soul and, at the time, was crushed when he'd trampled on it. Now from a distance, seeing herself and Tony of that time with the filters of greater knowledge – greater connection – she understood that he had never done so purposefully. He'd been fighting his own demons that, at the time, seemed so important, so powerful – just as hers had been. Now she could see that for so many months as partners, they'd been rising and falling with the same feelings, same reactions, same instincts for each other – just not cycling to the surface at the same time. But the explosion had torn more than their flesh and bone, more than his sight – it had torn away their defenses and reset the clock ...

_Amazing what a little time and a big explosion could do._

Ziva felt the weight of weeks gone by and the promise of more to come. She knew that time was working its way into their lives to ease the nightmares and calm anxieties, to heal deepest wounds and trade old habits for new. She knew they had made it past much of the worst but not all, had found much of their way together but not all. She knew they were not perfect, that life wasn't perfect, that each of them, and both of them, had lost much in their lives which could never be replaced. But what had grown in those voids, for each of them, and for both of them, was new and tender, unique ...

_... and theirs, alone._

She curled a little closer into his side and slipped her head up onto his shoulder, nestling in close and feeling a little involuntary purr rumble in her throat as he, not quite conscious yet, pulled her closer. The world could stop for a few more moments, just like this, she reflected – because they were safe and warm and in each other's arms ... and no matter what happened from now on, no matter what the world would throw at them, they'd been through more than most people would ever have to face, had been through the fire – quite literally – together, and had come out on the other side, even able to smile some of the time. In moments like this – most of the time.

In another moment, a sleepy, contented smile slowly lifted the corners of Tony's mouth, and he turned his head slightly to nuzzle her hair. "Whose turn is it to make coffee?" he murmured.

"The one who promised to buy a coffee maker that can be set the night before but has not," she challenged.

The DiNozzo smirk was back. "What happened to those crazy ninja skills of yours, _Zee-vah?_" he teased, his voice still husky with sleep. "No heightened sense of smell?"

And at that moment – realizing she suddenly scented the warm, rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee – she abruptly rocked up on her elbow to gape at him in her surprise, staring speechless as his smirk widened into a grin that he'd caught her unaware. "You did get one!" she exclaimed. His grin grew even wider and his chuckle carried his pleasure that he'd pleased her.

"Winter's coming," he explained, "and I figured we could use a few more warm minutes under the covers."

_They'd been through more than most people would ever have to face, Ziva thought again, and yet from the worst of moments had found that connection elusive to them before. They'd made it past most of the worst and had begun to believe that just about anything was possible. _

_Tony deftly circled her ribcage with his strong arm and pulled her close, bringing the fairy tale back again with his kiss. Ziva used to believe in many things, but fairy-tales had never been among them. _

_But as Tony kissed her, once again, her fairy-tale continued, and Ziva could still believe..._

_***_


	2. Gibbs

_**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed; original character in Scene I my own. The original story and scenario from "Believe Again" by Montana-Rosalie, FFN story ID #5047152 .**_

_A/N: Please see A/N in first chapter about my shameful theft of Montana-Rosalie's beautiful __**Believe Again**__ for this "sequel." I guess just one chapter wasn't enough to get it out if my system! This one takes even more liberties and encroaches even further, but she's still been kind enough to encourage it and vote for posting. So many, many thanks again to M-R for her generous and gracious sharing of her story and to Mari83 for reading and psychoanalysis **;}  
**_

_And FYI, although each chapter can stand alone from each other, they're posted backward chronologically, as this would have happened first. Sorry 'bout that._

_I'm still pretty new at writing NCIS, especially Gibbs, and though this is an AU, would appreciate any and all reviews, comments, and thoughts about this one – _

**Believing still**

I.

In his years as a leader – as gunnery sergeant and as team leader at NCIS, once Franks had gone – Gibbs had always done whatever it took to do the right thing for his men – for his _people_, he reminded himself. He'd gone to more funerals than should have; even one was too many, but at least after all this time he had been spared more than a half dozen. He'd done hospital visits and more stops in the ER than he liked.

But this was a first, and he wasn't exactly sure how it should go.

He looked around the small, otherwise empty waiting room and saw the familiar posters listing his rights – _and DiNozzo's rights_ – as a government employee, all of them taking on a new edge in light of recent events. This room was more frequently populated with those wanting to address a perceived wrong done to them by their employer, the federal government, and Gibbs found himself wondering how many of them had a legitimate claim or were just too soft to take whatever workload or discipline or direction their superior handed them.

And it struck him again why_ he_ was there, poking around in DiNozzo's behalf, and grimaced at his earlier thought. _Maybe a little too quick to jump to conclusions about all those others, without having all the facts?_

The door opened, and an attractive woman with an open file in her hand paused just one more moment, scanning its contents, before looking up to make eye contact. "Special Agent Gibbs?"

He rose, nodding soberly, without speaking, and was rewarded with an easy smile.

"C'mon back."

As he approached her, she didn't move from the doorway right away, but extended a hand and offered "Claire Avery" before turning and leading Gibbs down a short corridor lined with familiar looking, government issue carpet and cubicle dividers and file cabinets. At an office with an open door bearing the nameplate, "Claire Avery, Director," she turned in and came around a desk flanked by bookshelves full of statute books and legal-looking circulars.

"Have a seat, Agent Gibbs. My assistant said you had some questions about one of your employees."

"One of my team, yes..." He wasn't certain how much this woman would have been told, and hadn't been all that confident that the information he'd left with the receptionist was what he needed to give them. Still, somehow it had managed to get him into the Director's office.

"What's up?"

He looked up at the clear blue eyes, focused on him in open curiosity and interest, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Even though this was worlds away from an interrogation, Gibbs still felt decidedly out of place being the one interviewed, by someone so clearly used to being in charge of such discussions. He tried reminding himself that she was on DiNozzo's side; hers would be the office to take up his case on his behalf, at least internally, should it be needed. He even tried to remind himself that if he weren't so concerned about DiNozzo's immediate future he'd make note that a very attractive woman was focused entirely on what he had to say, looking as if she would be a good listener, and that if he'd been himself he might even speculate that she'd make an effective interrogator...

So maybe he was starting to relax, a little.

He drew a breath, refocused on why he was there, and said evenly, "I have a man who was injured on the job, and is in rehabilitation now. He's scheduled to receive his medical release to return to duty by the end of the month," Gibbs paused, then added, "but he won't meet all the qualifications to be a field agent anymore. I don't want to badger him into returning to work if NCIS won't take him back, at least in another capacity."

"What was his injury?" the Director asked.

"Head injury. Coma for four months, but ..." _Had he not said it out loud before? _Gibbs suddenly found himself suspecting that he had not_._ "He's blind now."

"No sight at all?"

"None." _Why did that matter? And why did it make him want to cringe as he answered?_

"And it's permanent?"

"Yes." He answered quickly, flatly, without emotion. _Like pulling off a band-aid_, the thought came unbidden...

But Director Avery was nodding, apparently weighing all the details. "Any other remaining effects of the coma or his head injury?"

"No; he has a clean bill of health otherwise – or will. His doctor said it was a done deal, no surprises expected."

"Good." She smiled a little. "And he was a regular employee up until then, full time, no problem, would have kept going as he was if not for this injury?" Gibbs simply nodded this time, and the woman's expression seemed to soften just sightly so her smile was more settled. "Then it's up to the agency – to NCIS's Director – to determine if there's a vacancy in the agency that he can fill, given all his qualifications. They have to make reasonable accommodation to his blindness – switch whatever the work might be from a print source to auditory, for example."

"But if there's no vacancy?" Gibbs brow darkened. He thought he knew most of the goings on in NCIS and didn't think there were too many openings at the moment. There were none connected with investigation or law enforcement ...

"Well, that could be a problem," the Director said. "Would he be willing to relocate?"

_Relocate? Alone? And now, without sight? Or maybe not alone after all ... DiNozzo relocates, and the team loses Ziva too? _ "I don't know," he replied honestly, looking her straight in the eye.

Gibbs' focus on the problem at hand was redirected only slightly by the woman's reaction to that, and he knew he'd telegraphed his own thoughts on the question. "Just another part of the options," she offered with a sympathetic look. "It has to be a real review for vacancies, Agent Gibbs. They can't force your man to relocate, and they'd have to go through some hoops before they could tell him it was the only way he could stay at NCIS."

Gibbs nodded again, again silently, mulling over the information he'd just obtained. Of course he'd thought about the sort of work Tony might do, there at the Yard, where he'd still be on site with everyone from the team, and where, even if he wasn't in the field anymore, he'd have Abby and Ducky there just as always. But the positions Gibbs had considered were either full at the moment – or existed only in his head as something he'd concocted, suiting DiNozzo's talents, but not something they'd ever had as an actual position...

"Agent Gibbs..." The Director interrupted his thoughts. "You don't know yet if your man is interested in coming back?"

"I know my agent. He'll want to." His reply was quiet but left no room for doubt.

"Well, then I suggest this. Your coming here today to ask about his employment rights was admirable. No matter what happens, you should suggest he stop by himself. I have some information for him that he probably won't get anywhere else – what he has a right to expect, what he can and can't anticipate being accommodated for him, what sort of adaptive equipment the Service will have to provide for him if he needs it and what they won't. A lot of people don't know that they can come here first and be armed with that information, so you've done him a big service there. And your next step – or, his, if you don't want to take the next step on his behalf – is to see your Director about vacancies within the Service, at whichever site or sites he's interested in working. He may have to make some of those decisions based on transportation availability, that sort of thing."

Gibbs could see that she was watching him closely for his reaction, and for a moment thought she acted as if it were he and not DiNozzo who had been injured...

"... the Director can determine the job requirements for each vacancy, and from there assess what if any adjustments have to be made for your man to do the job. It has to be an honest appraisal; we find that many times what the agency head thinks can't be reasonably accommodated just needs a bit more creative planning – we can be pretty useful at that part of the process as well." She offered him an encouraging smile, and Gibbs finally started to believe this might just be possible – because Claire Avery seemed to think it was, and she clearly knew what hoops lay ahead for DiNozzo to jump through...

"At that point, your guy and the Director put their heads together and with luck, they'll agree on a job placement. If their luck needs a boost – again, we're on call for that too. If that doesn't work out ... we can get with your agent and see about the next step."

Gibbs nodded again, nothing else to add, then finally looked back to her and shrugged. "I suspect – you have quite a way with the 'next step,' Director Avery."

She grinned a quick and winning smile. "My track record is pretty okay."

Gibbs finally chuckled – maybe the first time he had since he'd gotten the news that he had two agents down, all those months ago. He stood. "I just bet it is." He paused another awkward minute and added, "thank you."

"Best of luck to your man, Agent Gibbs. I'd say he's pretty lucky to have you looking out for him."

At that, Gibbs sighed – _you can't be there with them every moment, Jethro,_ he heard Ducky's voice replay yet again in his head – but this time managed to believe it, maybe just a little. He tipped his head at her words and said softly, "he's one of my best – whatever you can do for him here, whatever he needs – he's earned it all, and more. Whatever we can offer him, if he wants it – he'll do the job proud, no question."

"I believe you." She cocked her head slightly, assessing him, and her smile again warmed the room. She leaned across her desk to lift a couple of her business cards from their holder and hand them to him. "Any questions either of you have – or if Director Vance needs to discuss any of this – just give me a call."

And once again, a rusty but genuine smile touched Gibbs lips as he took a step toward the door. "We'll let you know."

II.

At least the week had been quiet, and as the team finished their reports and offered their assistance to another major case team working through an especially long list of witnesses, Gibbs glanced at his watch – just past 4:00 p.m., and an optimal time to see Vance. While the Director worked late often enough, and was out of town more time than he liked, he was also a family man and wouldn't be as apt to think kindly of granting favors when the person seeking them was keeping him from dinner with his wife and kids.

With an involuntary glance to the stairs first, before watching Ziva and McGee disappear into the elevator as they left to join Grayson's team for interviews, Gibbs rose to cross the squad room quickly and take the stairs two at a time. He decided not to push his luck, letting Cynthia announce him, although he hovered close behind her at the open door. Vance seemed to be in a fairly good mood, nodding him in immediately. "Gibbs," he offered.

"Leon." Gibbs waited for Cynthia to close the door behind her, then began, "Tony's scheduled to be released from rehab a week from Friday. He'll be medically cleared then too," Gibbs added, watching the Director for any slip in his deadpan demeanor. "If he wants to come back to work – what will you tell him?"

Vance tipped his head slightly in curiosity. "It wouldn't do me any good to suggest that's a conversation that I ought to have with DiNozzo, not you..."

"C'mon, Leon, hasn't he been through enough? If Tony wants to work, I want to be here to get his six on it, as much as I can do for him to get him back up to speed. If not, then I want to back him on whatever he decides to do. But I'm not going to let him get his hopes up that he can come back if you don't have a place for him."

"And getting his six includes a trip to EEOC?" Vance asked mildly, eyebrows lifting.

"I wasn't trying to go behind your back, Leon," Gibbs said tiredly, barely concerned how the Director knew, given the weight of his reasons for his trip there, "just gathering information."

"I understand. And I admire your dedication to your agent."

"They said you have to reassign him..." Gibbs began.

Vance considered the senior agent, the traces of strain still lingering around his eyes and mouth, never quite gone from the time DiNozzo had first been injured and deepened once the agent awoke again with less than a completely clear bill of health. "Did they? Or did they say I have to determine what vacancies are available in the Service that he could do, and assess him for reassignment?" He watched for any sign that Gibbs conceded him the point. "I'm familiar with Section 501, Jethro, it comes with the territory."

He anticipated what would come next in that bare moment before Gibbs focused on the next issue to growl, "well, there aren't exactly any vacancies around here, are there, Leon, other than DiNozzo's old desk? You got anything for him anywhere close, or are you going to offer him something out in some Godforsaken prairie state?"

"What makes you think there aren't any vacancies?" Vance's voice did not raise, and his calm didn't break, but the sound was a bit more brittle and stiff, until he drew a breath to add, "and what makes you think I wouldn't find a way for DiNozzo to stay on here – assuming he wants to," he probed.

"He'll want to." The reply was terse.

"_He_ will? Or you'll _make_ him want it?"

"Do you _have_ something to offer him to come back to, Leon? 'Cause if I go out there and convince him to come back to work and there's nothing here for him – "

"If you go out and convince him to come back to work, yeah, I have a couple ideas. He can come see me when he gets out of rehab."

"Real jobs, though, right? You give him some phonied up make-work job, he's gonna know."

Vance considered his senior field agent, letting the man continue once again to skirt the edge of insubordination because he understood and even sympathized with its source – not a disrespect for the office or even for him personally, but a fierce protectiveness for his fallen man. Maintaining a level tone, his voice lost some of its casual tone and he spoke more firmly. "I don't have either the time or the inclination to invent something for him when he can be an asset. Now – is there anything else?" Vance asked, clearly done with the encounter.

"Yeah," Gibbs snapped. Vance merely looked at him, waiting, finally gesturing in a shrug as if to ask what he had. Gibbs looked him in the eye, his brow drew again, and he again looked more tired than Vance had ever seen him. "Thanks."

"DiNozzo's a good man, one I'd rather not lose if we can work something out."

Gibbs nodded, finally letting a bit of the relief he felt trickle into his thoughts. "Yeah, Leon – me too."

III.

On arrival on Bethesda's campus, Gibbs drove past the hospital facilities to the rehab complex and, cleared through the front desk, made his way past the expected physical therapy rooms, classrooms and activity rooms to the dorm-like common room with TV, computer stations, and a large coffee machine he'd noted on his one previous trip here.

Had it really been six weeks? No matter how often he told himself he'd stayed away because Tony was busy here, working on both learning the skills he needed to cope with his blindness and rebuilding muscle atrophied by months in a coma, he knew deep down that it had been in good part because it was far harder for him visiting here than in any hospital room or emergency department. Was it the finality it represented, a submission to the fact that things – that _Tony_ – wouldn't miraculously recover?

Gibbs found himself wondering if Tony would be driven as crazy in his place as he would be, and allowed that Tony might be even more so. He also suspected DiNozzo would find ways to stick it out longer than he would – maybe more vocal about his irritation, true – but ultimately, he would be stubborn enough to outlast even him. Hell, he'd always beat the odds; not even the plague could make him give up...

His eyes closed involuntarily at the memory for a moment, until he drew a sharp breath as he reminded himself why he was here...

The moment passed quickly, and Gibbs glanced around the open room, empty in the late afternoon, the faint sounds of people coming from a few directions. "DiNozzo?" a staffer he'd stopped had repeated, glancing at his watch. "Try the gym, all the way at the end of the main corridor."

Gibbs heard the sound before he saw him through the gym's large window, the soft, rhythmic pounding of feet on a treadmill – and Gibbs looked in to see DiNozzo in an otherwise empty gym, jogging doggedly. He was pushing himself; he looked worn, his grey t-shirt drenched in sweat, his hair damp now too. Four months in a coma had left even the larger than life special agent thinner, his muscles wasted through disuse, and it had taken many days before Tony could manage more than a few halting steps on shaky limbs. And that hadn't even been a full two months ago.

Gibbs wasn't surprised to see his senior field agent – his _former_ senior field agent, he had to remember – pushing things, pushing hard, pushing to get back his strength, working to restore as much of himself as he could. He was still too thin, but he was gaining back some muscle mass, which was good. But seeing him in shorts and his thin t-shirt, Gibbs couldn't help remember the concerns of his doctors, of Abby and Ziva, in those first weeks after he awoke – that DiNozzo wasn't eating much.

_DiNozzo, not eating?_ DiNozzo, who could happily live on food others over the age of twelve found indigestible, not eating? That may have worried Gibbs more than the coma did.

Tony still, reportedly, found it hard to eat more than a small amount at each meal, enough that his doctors ordered regular, high-calorie snacks through the day. Now this apparent drive to get back in shape, running even after exhaustion, barely two months after a four month coma ...

Gibbs moved on from the large window into the doorway. "DiNozzo – " he barked.

DiNozzo's head popped up in surprise and stopped as immediately as the treadmill allowed. "Boss?"

It wasn't a question. At least, it wasn't the 'is that you?' someone unenlightened might have expected him to ask. Gibbs knew with all certainty that Tony knew damn well who it was, and that the question was more like 'what are you doing here?' He felt a sudden, brief regret that he hadn't come back earlier – DiNozzo would understand his reasoning, if he ever decided to explain, however unlikely – but the look on DiNozzo's face, an almost adolescent hope for his acceptance, even now, made him want to head-slap himself for the oversight...

"What are ya doin'?" His demeanor tough, as if nothing was different, Gibbs came close to the treadmill and peered over on the console – 6.2 miles. He winced, involuntarily, at both the read-out and the slight wheezing he heard in DiNozzo's soft panting. "Does Dr. Pitt know you're abusing your lungs out here?"

All through DiNozzo's coma, the doctor who had seen Tony through the plague and afterward had been a steady presence, checking his lungs, the fear of pneumonia bad enough for any comatose patient but especially for one whose lungs had been so compromised not all that long ago. Once Tony awoke, still in the main part of the hospital, Brad continued to check in on occasion, and Gibbs hoped he'd kept it up even though Tony had moved across campus to the rehab unit.

DiNozzo reached for the towel he'd draped on the treadmill's console arm and snorted softly, "he comes out and runs with us sometimes. I think he does it just so he can call on days like today – pollution index goes over a certain point, he orders them not to let me run outside." He scrubbed the towel over his face and across his neck. "I'm kinda sweaty, Gibbs, sorry – if I'd known you were coming..."

Gibbs refused to let himself hear any level of accusation in the younger man's tone, and drawled, "hell, DiNozzo, I'm used to ya." He nodded back toward the treadmill, "keep moving – walk some or you'll stiffen up."

With an awkward smile, the younger man nodded as he started up again, now just walking at a smooth, easy pace. After just a moment, though, he smiled a little sadly and said, "this isn't just a social visit, is it, Bos – uh, Gibbs..."

Again, not a question, and not a simple slip of the tongue. DiNozzo must have expected the visit and what he was likely to hear now from Gibbs. The senior agent fought the urge to tell Tony right then and there that he'd happily be "Boss" to him for as long as he wanted. But it would mean far more to just show him, he reminded himself, so tried a smirk. "Well, you tell me, DiNozzo – you're coming off medical status tomorrow, and..."

"... and you get to do the honors?" Tony stopped again, and again grabbed the towel, now around his neck, to swipe the sweat from his face. He stepped off the treadmill and faced Gibbs. " Look, let me save you the trouble. I know why you're here. NCIS special agents have to have 20/20 vision to be field agents. That old 20/10 I used to have has changed a bit."

Gibbs paused a moment then tried, "you done, DiNozzo?"

"Yes. No." Tony frowned and shook his head. "Boss, I'm sorry..."

"DiNozzo – "

"No, Gibbs, I want to apologize. I need to apologize. I apologize for apologizing, but... I messed up, and ... I'm sorry. I'm not sorry I did what I did, but ... I'm sorry I didn't duck. That was a probie move."

Another pause, and again, Gibbs spoke mildly. "You done?"

DiNozzo wavered, then said "No." His breathing sped up again slightly, not only from running. "Look – I know the requirements are correctable to 20/20; hell, there are only five requirements to be a field agent, Gibbs, and _none_ of the others are physical requirements! And did you know, while we're at it, there are _no_ I.Q. requirements – I could be as dumb as a rock and still be a special agent; hell, if it wasn't for this I'd've qualified in a _coma_, because there's no requirement that you even be conscious or non-vegetative or..."

The smack on the back of his head brought immediate silence to the room.

"You done _now?_" Gibbs tried once more.

There was a pause, a gulp amid DiNozzo's gradually quieting breaths. "Yeah, Boss."

"Well, then," Gibbs started speaking again, his voice still quieter than usual. "As I was saying – you're off medical status tomorrow. You coming back?"

DiNozzo blinked, stunned. "What?"

"They get your ears, too, DiNozzo, or did you just slip back into that coma?" Gibbs griped, the sound sweetly familiar to the injured agent. "Are – you – coming – ba..."

"I got that, Gibbs," Tony paused, as if to process. "But ... not on your team..."

"No, Tony – and _I'm _sorry about that." Gibbs' tone shifted now to a sincere, direct one. "We tried. We looked into some things, to see if we could work out something, but the Feds and funding right now..."

"But ... not some 'meet and greet' job or PR desk or some pity-filler job, is it? 'Cos Boss, that would be worse..."

"I know, Tony."

"I mean, there was a guy on Reno 911 a couple years ago, a shot up cop; they played it all for laughs but brought him back in and he was just a mess, ya know? And they just..."

"DiNozzo, do I have to smack you again? You know I will..."

DiNozzo stopped short, then conceded, "I know you will, Boss."

Gibbs didn't know if it was his health, the jogging, or facing what was to come at work, but Tony looked pale and less steady than he should. Kindly, he said, "c'mon, DiNozzo, there's got to be someplace around here we can sit and talk for a few minutes..."

Tony blinked a little, the thought of actually sitting and chatting not dawning on him, with the surprise – and what he thought was the purpose – of Gibbs' visit. "Oh, yeah, sure – sorry," he added, almost under his breath to sneak in another apology. "There's a door out at the end of the hall, just to the right – it goes outside to an area with some tables and benches. This time of day we might even have it to ourselves."

"Okay," Gibbs watched as Tony crossed over to a nearby bench to pick up a jacket and a bundle of white cylinders Gibbs recognized as being a white cane, folded up in non-use. To his mild surprise, Tony didn't open it but simply crossed out of the gym, allowing his fingers to only occasionally flick along the wall toward the door. _Familiar enough with the place, then, that it wasn't needed? _Gibbs had noticed a couple others inside when he first arrived, negotiating without a cane. _Maybe they're not for inside use, then..._

They crossed the hall silently, and DiNozzo pushed though a large exit door leading outside, to a small, picnic-like area that, as he predicted, was empty. Gibbs saw Tony pause only a moment, assessing, then move with only a bit less certainty toward a table near the door. "We're it, Boss?" Tony asked, putting his things on the table.

Gibbs joined him. "We're it." He slipped onto the attached bench as DiNozzo did the same. "Director Vance has a few ideas for you, if you want to come back to work. He knows where your skills lie – you're a damn good investigator and interrogator. What you've done with the team over the past eight years should translate pretty easily into analysis." Gibbs watched his agent carefully as it all began to sink in for him, that the dismissal he thought was inevitable was not going to come. The realization appeared to make Tony forget that Gibbs wouldn't be his 'Boss' anymore – at least not technically. DiNozzo's grin appeared in stages, growing ever wider as he realized what he was hearing...

"Well?" Gibbs pressed, hoping he hid the relief and satisfaction he felt at the response – the only reason Tony would be so relieved and pleased was that he didn't want to leave NCIS if he could help it. "You can't tell me you haven't thought about it, DiNozzo."

"Only about getting fired," Tony replied immediately.

Gibbs snorted softly. "Yeah, well, about that," Tony had no problem at all hearing Gibbs' trademark smirk. "Turns out they couldn't do that anyway, DoNozzo, and they have an office to walk you through everything to make sure that you get everything you need to do your job, even if you can't see."

His eyebrows lifted slowly as he considered the information. "EEOC," he mused.

"Yeah. You know about them already?"

"It's been mentioned here. I just figured, though, with what we do and all the requirements, it wouldn't work out..."

"It'll work out."

DiNozzo was quiet for a moment, then looked as if he might apologize again. "It won't be the same as your team, though..."

"Maybe not – but you won't be too far away for a head slapping any time you need it – and I don't care where you work or even if you get promoted to a higher pay grade than me, the back of your head's still mine, you got that, DiNozzo?"

The younger man's face shifted to a sudden awe that, for the first time in many, many months, carried the signs of the old Tony DiNozzo. "I could be promoted over _you_?"

He was answered with another head slap, softer this time, affectionate. "You got that?" Gibbs repeated.

"Got it, Boss. Back of my head. Yours. In perpetuity."

"You haven't been home in a while. You need anything?"

"I don't know." Again, his answer was immediate and this time, nakedly honest. "I mean ... we've gone over my place, and went through everything, and they think I'm set. But I guess I'll see when I get there."

"You know, don't you, that Abby was organizing a 'welcome home' party for you tomorrow – at your place."

Tony nodded wearily, a rueful edge to his voice. "I know – Ziva told me. I enlisted her to convince Abby to put it off a week."

"Well, you may be the victim of a compromise, DiNozzo – " Amusement colored Gibbs' voice. "I think she bought you one day." He watched the mixed reaction in the man across from him – appreciation for Abby's concern and excitement for his return, with the uncertainty about whether he was up to having a crowd of people in a home he hadn't had time to learn by touch yet. "So what will you be doing Saturday night?"

"Having a party, I guess." Tony sighed, even as a small smile colored his lips. "You comin'?"

"You got any bourbon?"

"If I don't I can find some." DiNozzo was quiet for a moment, clearly Gibbs' news working back through his thoughts, and he sobered again, slightly. "Boss?" he tried in a quiet voice, turning his face more fully toward him.

"Yeah, DiNozzo?"

"Your coming here to tell me about the Director having some ideas for me to keep working..." He was as sober and serious as Gibbs had ever seen him. "That means ... you think I can do this, right? 'Cause you wouldn't come here and jerk my chain if you didn't..."

"Tony ..." Gibbs said quietly, "I know you can do this – 'cause if I didn't ..." He paused.

"...you wouldn't be here." Tony nodded slowly, looking as if he was starting to believe it.

"I wouldn't be here," Gibbs confirmed.

Tony sat quietly, mulling it over. After a few moments, his somber expression softened very slightly and his brow cleared as he nodded again slightly, unconsciously. "You wouldn't be here," he echoed in a whisper, nodding once more, as he tucked away Gibbs' confidence in him, holding it close.

Seeing it, Gibbs felt a pride in the man who had come so far – at every turn proving Gibbs' confidence in him was justified, in hiring him so long ago, in trusting that he'd want to come back to work – even if so much of it was done on his own, unconventional terms. _And it's that lack of convention in him that makes him an asset, augments the usual uncreative thinkers_, Gibbs reminded himself. It wouldn't be long at all before DiNozzo got that better pay grade.

"I need coffee," he announced. "Why don't you wash off that stench and we'll go across the street – you look like you could use one of those Gawdawful concoctions that's more milkshake than coffee..."

DiNozzo brightened. "With real whipped cream," he agreed.

"Enjoy it while you can, DiNozzo – you have too many of 'em, they'll decide they're too many calories even for you."

"Sounds good." DiNozzo stood up and gathered up his things. Not hearing Gibbs move, he tried, "you comin,' Boss?"

Gibbs shrugged. "Nice out here. Why don't I just wait for you right here?"

"You got it... back in two minutes..." Gibbs didn't turn as Tony passed him and went back into the building.

He sighed, slumping slightly to lean on the table where he sat. It had gone well – maybe better than he'd expected, even though he'd had all confidence in DiNozzo and his choice to return to work – yet the meeting had drained him for the moment. _He'd been right then, hadn't he, that it was the finality of what this place represented and the pain he felt that Tony had to go through this that made a visit here so hard. Tony would land on his feet and make lemonade of these lemons, as well as anyone he knew – and maybe that's why it felt so unfair that he had to..._

Gibbs drew a deep breath and decided that he'd mourned Tony's loss long enough. Knowing DiNozzo, he was going to need some reassurance along the way, and needed someone around who wasn't afraid to kick a blind guy's ass. DiNozzo knew him well enough to trust that he'd do just that when it was called for. And as he shifted his long legs from under the table to the outside of the bench, Gibbs sat back to lean against the table, shaking off the last of his sadness for the agent, and felt his frame relax as he let go of the tension he'd carried with him all this time.

IV.

Once again, Gibbs found himself in the small waiting room of the District's EEOC office, but this time felt far less overwhelmed and worried than he had his last trip there. He even smiled a bit to himself as he remembered his not so subtle confession of thirty minutes earlier...

_It was 3:45 and with a glance first over toward his Mossad liaison officer, he called out, "David! Barrington! I need you two to go to DC Metro and escort a witness back here."_

_Ziva had looked up at him immediately and opened her mouth to protest, but immediately shut it and shook herself slightly. She pulled out her phone to say, "A fast call then, Gibbs? I was to pick up Tony at..."_

'_Yeah, I know, David. Why do you think I waited until now to send you?" He allowed a grin. "Tell him I'll pick him up at... ?"_

"_4:15," the woman replied with a grudging smile of her own starting. "Hello – Tony," she spoke into the phone. "Change of plans – Gibbs will pick you up at 4:15 instead of me." There was a short pause and she answered his unheard question, grinning slyly toward Gibbs, "he assigned me to transport duty apparently just so that he could come instead." The glance she shot at Gibbs, as if to challenge him for his action, actually made him chuckle. After another word or two she shut her phone, stood, and grabbed her jacket. "He said he does not know if his life is less or more in danger with the change."_

Remembering the exchange, Gibbs chuckled again, willing to feel some hope that things would work out for Tony. Of course the younger man had babbled on to him about his insecurities and complaints and speculation about the new position – more than once – but it was all so perfectly DiNozzo, after too many months of a subdued and less frenetic Tony, that he couldn't help but think it was a good sign.

He had barely checked in with the receptionist, waiting only a couple minutes, before he heard some voices in the hall behind the door, one clearly DiNozzo's. The other he remembered from the last time. The door opened and DiNozzo was front and center – with Director Claire Avery only a step behind him. "DiNozzo," he said immediately, having gotten the hang of things with Ziva's frequent reminders – he was going to have to tell her she needed to relax, he mused – and smiled at the woman he remembered from before. "Director Avery."

"Special Agent Gibbs – it's nice to see you again."

He nodded, almost saying nothing, but couldn't help his smile from moving up a bit higher as he registered she really was as attractive as he'd remembered – maybe even more so. "Me too," he conceded.

Tony's eyebrows shot up in gleeful interest. "You two know each other?" he tried for an innocent delivery.

"We met only the one time, when he came in to see about getting information for you," the woman said smoothly. Tony beamed in response. Gibbs tried not to roll his eyes too noticeably in case Claire would think some of it was for her.

Gibbs was gratified to find that DiNozzo maintained some decorum as the three of them spoke for another few minutes, and even managed to make small talk on the way out to his car. But once buckled into the passenger seat in Gibbs' car, they'd barely made it out of the parking lot before he started in.

"So what was all that, back in the office, with the Director coming out and making all that small talk with you? You know her before?" Tony asked again.

"Nope," Gibbs replied.

"Well, she was friendly to me, but pretty businesslike, what with all the pamphlets and forms and all we decided I didn't need to get down to these." He jiggled the folder of federal forms and circulars he'd brought out with him. "You know, Boss," Tony started pestering in earnest, his voice shifting into the long unused sound usually more in keeping with picking on McGee or bugging Ziva for personal info, "when I hung up and said it was just a change of ride, that my old boss was coming, the Director asked if it was you. When I told her it was, we suddenly spent a lot more time talking about the team – and you – than anything about the new job." He let that sink in for a moment before he asked, curiosity clearly engaged, "so all of that was just from your one visit here before?"

"Guess so, DiNozzo," Gibbs grunted, smiling to himself.

And whatever Tony heard in the response, he suddenly grinned widely and turned to face him. "You didn't come here to check up on me at all, did you, Boss? This was all about you coming by to see the Director again!"

Gibbs glanced over to see a conspiratorial grin he hadn't seen since the long-absent, over-aged juvenile had last appeared in the squad room – and it did Gibbs worlds of good to see it again, to know that Tony – the _real_ Tony – was on his way back. With a mock growl, he snapped, "what do _you_ think, DiNozzo?" He turned onto the Beltway to take them back to the Navy Yard – and NCIS. "She's a redhead..."


	3. Abby

_**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed; the original story and scenario from "Believe Again" by Montana-Rosalie, FFN story ID #5047152 .**_

_A/N: yet another installment in my continuing theft of Montana-Rosalie's __**Believe Again**__, which has taken a life of its own in my poor little brain, as if it was the pilot episode for yet another NCIS spin-off! So again, repeating my thanks to M-R for her generous and gracious permission to tromp all over her fic and for being so encouraging. Also, my thanks to Mari83 for reading and for always finding and having fun with the esoteric geeky parts! _

_**WARNING: these installments are woefully out of chronological order!**__ If it matters, were they chronological this would be first, then 2 then 1... it all sorta just happened when this one shot became a 2 shot then a 3... and a 4__th__ is presently in progress..._

_Shameless plea__: this story has been getting a good number of hits, but not too many reviews. I'm completely un-psychic and have no way to know if this stinks until you tell me, so throw me a word or two – all reviews, comments, and thoughts very much appreciated..._

**Believing still**

He awoke with a start; the name was past his lips before his brain engaged. "Ziva?"

"Hey, Tony. It's me. Abby." The raspy, comfortably familiar voice came with a shifting of position – and an unmistakable hippo-fart – from the chair just a couple feet away. "And Bert," she added, coming over to take his hand and stand close, at his bedside.

She needn't have identified herself. Of course he knew the sound of her at the very first syllable, and he felt himself smile a little at all the sounds that spelled Abby.

"Hey, Abs," he whispered, relaxing back into the pillows under him, tired already – remembering the what and where of things. _Only hours out of a coma, and everything was still kicking his ass. Well, they said he'd be weak at first, but he never thought he'd be more flattened by anything than he'd been by the plague... _

"Tony, Ziva will be right back; she didn't want to leave, but it's been almost two whole days since she left Prague and she _wanted_ to stay but she really wanted a shower and some clean clothes, too, so when you dropped off to sleep again and it seemed like you were sleeping really soundly this time she said if I was going to be here anyway she was going to go home just long enough to shower and change and come right back and you know how fast she drives, so it won't be long at all."

The bubbling, energetic, prototypical Abby explanation spelled home for Tony as much as anything did. She had been there, with him, when he first woke up – or at least soon enough that he remembered her being there from those very first moments. Abby had been at his side through many of the past hours, at least until Ziva came, finally admitting to him that he "shouldn't have to be alone" now that he was awake, after so many weeks and months of being alone in his head, even if they'd all been there, over so many months, sitting with him, talking to him.

Her presence was comforting, her funny, raspy Abby-voice even more grounding now that he had only auditory cues to tie him back to the familiar. Abby had been with him though so many of his bumps and bruises, often there for him when even he didn't know he needed a friend. She had been at his bedside as often as she could manage when he was recovering from the plague; she'd even come to his place a couple times after he'd been sent home, too, bearing soup and later, pizza, but had gotten less time free from the lab once he was out of the woods and out of the hospital. He'd always suspected that she got the extra time thanks to Gibbs, so she could make the trip out to Bethesda while the others were busy ... or less dedicated to their roles as surrogate family than Abby always managed to be.

This time, he'd been back in the land of the conscious for about forty eight hours, as best he could tell, and almost immediately had been hit with the news that the muddy grey fog in which he now found himself was all that was left of his previously 20/10 sight. It was Abby's presence that kept him from breaking down completely. With her there, he _couldn't_ break down – but with her there, and there _for_ him, there was also less of a reason to lose it. Abby was always Abby, always there for him, whatever was needed. No matter what else lay ahead, with Abby in his corner, he knew he didn't have to fear facing the dark alone. He would never have guessed that it could mean so much.

Funny, though ... it had been Ziva, not Abby, who had been in his dreams – or what had passed as dreams – while he had been comatose. He'd heard the others, all of them, he was sure he had, and he knew that all of them had been there, one time or another, talking to him, even playing his favorite movies, and theirs, on the portable DVD player McGee had brought and offering their commentary as they did. But not like Ziva – no matter what other memories he thought he had from it all, Ziva had been alive and vibrant in his dreams the whole time ...

He found that he wasn't certain what he had dreamed before he'd awakened, and what had really happened since. He couldn't tell memory from fantasy about what he had said and what she had done. _Was it just his scrambled brains not yet firing on all cylinders? Or was it only because his last waking thoughts, before he exploded, were of the danger she was in? Of keeping her safe? Or maybe ... maybe was it some of the same things that led him to thoughts about her on the job, sometimes, before he caught himself with a mental head-slap and a reminder about Rule 12... _

Abby _said_ that Ziva had been there – or, implied she had been, in telling him she had wanted to stay. Abby was his rock. Abby wouldn't lie...

"Tony?" Abby's expressive voice brought with it a new worry for him, maybe with his silence as he still tried to sort things through. "She ought to be back any minute."

_So she read his mind now, too?_ He gave the hand holding his a little squeeze and mustered a smile. "She probably has plenty to do, Abs, if she just got back from a mission with Gibbs."

"She's coming right back." Abby said firmly. At his silence, she squeezed his hand in return and said, "we all missed you, Tony. We all came to see you and did whatever we could think of to get you back awake and back to us. But Ziva ... even more."

_He suddenly remembered one of his dreams, of Ziva sitting at his side, where Abby stood now, the hospital's sounds hushed around him, with her soft, crooning voice singing just barely above the mechanical sounds of the life support systems around him. He remembered it as being in Hebrew ... a lullaby, maybe. Real? Or dream?_

'_Real or dream?' he snorted to himself. Sounded like a bad TV game show from the '50s..._

"I think I remember," he admitted. "Think that's possible?"

"I _know_ it's possible," Abby asserted, a little hippo fart emphasizing her words. "It's one of the reasons they decided it's a good idea to talk to people in comas, sometimes they know what's going on and hear it all." She paused a moment, and when he said nothing more, she spoke again, a nervous energy in her voice making her sound as if she was uncomfortable and trying to make small talk. "What do you remember?"

"Ziva" he admitted. _Singing_, he remembered again, but didn't tell Abby – even with his thoughts still muddy, he suspected Ziva wouldn't have done it if she thought anyone one know. "You ... Everyone. 'Blazing Saddles,'" he laughed softly.

"That was Gibbs." He could hear Abby grin.

"Thought so," he nodded. "But wouldn't have expected it from him. I would have guessed John Wayne." He fought to stay awake a little longer.

"Oh, yeah, but those were the first he brought. Maybe you were more out of it then."

_Just a few minutes more; it wasn't fair that after so many months asleep he couldn't stay awake longer that this... _ "And you brought 'Dracula,'" he managed, the memory bringing his own smile.

"Tony! You really did hear us!"

The discomfort he'd heard from her earlier evaporated again, to his relief, and he felt his smile soften as his consciousness did. "Told ya..." he murmured. He'd _dreamed_ of Ziva ... but he'd heard them all, heard that they were all there for him this time. "You guys kept me alive..."

He heard a gulp; her breathing hitched. But if she had anything to say in response, it was lost as he slipped under again, sleep claiming him once more.

"Oh, Tony," Abby breathed, seeing him drift off again, and she jabbed at the new trickle of tears on her cheek, Bert farting softly as she did. Not wanting him to be alone again, she carefully lay Bert on the far side of him and climbed onto the softly growling bariatric bed, settling down beside him. "There's no way we were gonna let you leave us, not even by sleeping through everything..." She muttered, closing her eyes, the gently shifting bed adding to her sleep-deprived state. "Now you just need to work on coming back home..."

***

"Abby..."

The cool touch of Ziva's hand registered as her voice did, waking Abby from an odd, dreamless doze. Blinking up at the agent, she saw that Ziva looked as if she felt a little better than before, freshly showered, clean cargoes and a soft t-shirt thrown on with her hair pulled back in a simple band, all the faster to return. Even so – she was clearly still exhausted.

Ziva's eyes left Abby's to look at the man next to her, sleeping quietly, and without thinking, she straightened one of the lines still feeding a drip into his arm to avoid its tangling after he moved around a little, such little touches automatic now. As she did, Abby sat up carefully, not wanting to disturb him before he was ready to rouse again. "Did he awaken while I was gone?" Ziva asked softly.

Abby looked back at Tony as if to reassure herself of his ongoing recovery, then nodded, as she swung her legs to the side of the bed. "For a few minutes," she whispered. With another, assessing glance at the patient, Ziva motioned toward the hall, so they could talk without disturbing him. Abby nodded and followed her out, stretching a little with her own sleep deprivation.

They'd barely stepped out into the hall before Abby spoke again, the nap-cobwebs clearing, as she remembered some of the more encouraging parts of Tony's moments awake. "Tony remembers us all being here, Ziva! He remembers the movies. And he remembers you," she added. "When he woke up – he said your name, right away, like before he was even really awake..."

"I should have been here," Ziva shook her head, frustrated that she'd gone and been missing once again when he woke, frustrated at her timing. "I knew I should have stayed..."

"No, Ziva, it was okay." Abby's look of concern now encompassed Ziva's well-being as well as Tony's. "I just thought you should know ... you know..."

Ziva nodded, but not fully convinced. "So he was awake longer this time, yes?"

"Maybe a little bit. But the best news according to Ducky is that he's remembering and he's talking and it all makes sense. So maybe how long he stays awake isn't the most important thing for now."

Ziva looked into Abby's wide, compassionate eyes, urging her comfort, urging Tony to be better, and she smiled a little, in spite of the circumstances. Abby had known Tony as long as Gibbs had; according to Tony, this was just one more of several hospital vigils she'd spent with him, willing him back to health. Ziva reflected the fierce loyalty the woman showed for her team, and with some affectionate humor suddenly remembered how hard it had been for Abby to accept her stepping into Kate's place. She had no doubt that, if history were to repeat itself, Abby had accepted her now too, so completely, that if another agent were called on to fill her place, Abby would be likely to give them a hard time, too, at first.

"Abby – thank you," the Israeli's dark eyes looked deep into the Goth's green ones. "Tony said something last night, about how you have always been here for him, how he knows you'll be right there by his side when he needs you. I am glad. Especially when..." She wavered, the thought still a difficult one, after so many months of standing by, waiting and hoping. "... when the rest of us were not." The thought clearly still pained her that they had missing to him – that _she_ had been missing – when he needed his teammates the most. "He was more asleep than awake, but he called you his rock – that you have been so steady and strong for him it made things a little less bad."

"Really?" Ziva saw Abby's eyes suddenly brimming with tears, and a look of desperate need to believe her words. "Honest? Because this is so hard! I _so_ didn't want Tony to know just how much... but Ziva," Abby's large, expressive eyes spilled over again. "I was so afraid I wouldn't know how to talk to him."

The reaction surprised her. "Just as you always do; Abby, you are always good at taking people as they are," Ziva pressed.

"...but some things are harder than others, right, Abs?"

"_Gibbs!"_ Abby spun suddenly and as the strong arms of their team leader went around her, Ziva saw Abby seem to crumble, her previous cheer and strength clearly held in place only by sheer will power until Gibbs could get back from Europe, to get back to the team and to Tony, to make things right again.

As Abby shuddered soundlessly against Gibbs' chest, he looked over to Ziva, his expression unreadable, but his face drawn again, his eyes not as neutral as he would hope. "How is he, Ziva?"

_Meaning, 'how is he taking it?' _"Weak," she clipped, knowing it would be far easier to report facts, not opinion. "He does not often stay awake long for more than a few minutes at a time, but his doctor said that will improve steadily. He is oriented to time and place." She concentrated on breathing evenly, summoning her training to focus, so she would avoid crumbling as certainly as Abby had...

"Ziva..." Gibbs voice was uncharacteristically gentle, the concern there for Tony – for _her_ – enough, when added to her exhaustion and worry, that Ziva's eyes spilled over anyway.

"...and he knows, and maybe is a little afraid," she forced herself to keep reporting, pushing her emotions back, "but we have not left him alone since he has been awake. He has not had much time to think it through yet."

Gibbs considered her, his expression again haunted. "You know he has," he murmured.

Finding the thought difficult – but certainly true – Ziva insisted, "maybe so. But not as much as if he were awake for very long – or left alone with his thoughts."

Gibbs seemed to consider that, finally nodding his agreement that it was the best that could be hoped at this point. "Okay," he sighed. "Abby..." He turned his attention back to her, rubbed her back. "You're exhausted. You've done a good job here. You need to get some rest so you can come back again and Tony won't know how hard this is."

Abby pulled back a little and nodded, dabbing at her now reddened eyes with her sleeve.

"I don't want you driving, though. McGee's on his way. He'll be downstairs in two minutes to take you home."

"But Gibbs," she roused from her earlier surrender. "I should wait and tell Tony I'll be back to see him tomorrow..."

Even in his own exhaustion, Gibbs' faint smile was tender for her. "He knows you will, Abs."

With only a moment's hesitation as she looked at Gibbs, weighing his words, Abby then turned to Ziva. To her surprise, Abby seemed to be seeking her confirmation as well. Ziva nodded immediately, relieved that in this, she could wholeheartedly agree. "It is true, Abby. And I will tell him Gibbs ordered you home for a while, yes?"

Wordlessly, Abby shifted out of Gibbs's arms to throw her arms around Ziva, surprising the Israeli again with her emotional hug of support and shared grief. Moments later, after another long look to Gibbs, wanting to believe he could make this right too, Abby turned from them both, saying nothing, and walked away toward the elevator.

Gibbs turned back to Ziva. With the waiting and the diagnosis finally resolved, his concern for his injured agent – his injured _agents_ – was as immediate as it had been those first dark days after the explosion. "You okay?" he asked softly.

The question surprised and slightly flustered her, as if she hadn't known that Gibbs had figured out her feelings for Tony long before she had. "I am fine," she said, her voice clipped as she worked to keep a professional distance on her observations, even though to do so she could not meet Gibbs' eyes. "I was able to finish my report on the plane and I will have it on your desk in the morning."

"Ziva –" Gibbs paused, as if he was going to say something else, but changed his mind, nodding in concession. Turning away from her to look toward Tony's room, silently at first, he finally asked, "How is he really?"

Ziva swallowed, again finding formality safer. "As I said – I believe he has been awake enough to have it register ... but not too deeply yet. He..." She paused, then offered, "he is choosing not to think about it, perhaps."

"Or talk about it?"

"Definitely not talk about it." Ziva nodded quickly. _At least, not after those first moments, when she first arrived after he'd awakened._ "But he has not been conscious for long periods yet. His patterns of sleep are shifting, however, and he is waking up after less time asleep. Ducky has said that is also to be expected, as his brain gets back into a more normal sleeping-waking cycle." She looked back into the stoic expression Gibbs worked to maintain and offered, "he said that Tony is showing more of the recovery he would have expected of someone in a coma only half as long, maybe even less – and that it is all very hopeful."

Gibbs nodded, and tipped his head toward the door again. "You should get back in there, if he's going to wake again soon."

"He would want you to say hello, if you are here anyway." Ziva finally met his gaze.

Gibbs seemed to waiver, then nodded. "But when he drops off again, I need to get back. And I want to check on Abby."

Ziva frowned. "Abby?" At his nod, she shrugged, "she did seem a little more upset than usual at this but then it is upsetting, is it not? Would you expect anything different from her?"

"No – but Ducky had to remind me."

As she waited for more, Ziva saw again the toll this had taken on their team leader: maybe it was temporary, maybe not, but DiNozzo's long coma and now his blindness was wearing on Gibbs in a way that long hours and physical pounding never did. It was more than simply a commander losing a man, something Ziva had seen enough in the Mossad, from her father, from other commanders. There was no question that Gibbs was dedicated to his men in general. But maybe it was Tony's abiding need for his approval, maybe the younger man's faithful dedication to his team leader. Whatever the reason, Gibbs had a special concern for Tony, and he was clearly still trying to come to terms with the knowledge that he would never rejoin the team – and the effect it had on the rest of them.

"Abby's family is Deaf, Ziva." Involuntarily, Gibbs thought of the stories he'd heard from Abby over the years of her parents, of her grandmother and uncles, also Deaf, of her growing up as a part of a large Deaf community, her occasional visits home often including a return to their pot lucks and bowling nights and annual reunions. "Do you have any idea what the idea of blindness means in the Deaf community?"

Ziva frowned slightly as she considered it. The information helped explain why the normally emotional woman would take the news especially hard – not only was she close to Tony, but her family would have relied on vision for _everything_, not only the usual things for which people used their eyes, but also just about everything for which the rest of the population used their ears. "No," she admitted. "But ... I do not know that I fully understand yet what it means for Tony, either."

Her words seemed to momentarily sting Gibbs, but Ziva couldn't speculate why. It was only a moment, though, and his face slipped back into his stony mask. "He'll beat it," he said tersely. "He's stubborn enough."

She looked back to Gibbs, wondering what was going through his mind with his words. "He will not walk this one off, Gibbs," she urged, quietly. "Not this time."

"He damn well better," Gibbs said softly as he moved past her toward Tony's room. "Even if he has to do it without sight."

Ziva watched her boss disappear into Tony's room and, after a moment or two to gather herself, unmoving, she sighed and followed him in. As Gibbs stood a few feet from the bed, his practiced eye looking for improvement since the last time he'd been there and since Tony had found his way back to the world, Ziva came up close to his bedside. With a small laugh, she saw that in the past few minutes he'd pulled Bert to his chest, his arm still looped around the fuzzy grey hippo, the remnants of a drowsy grin still on his face. _Bless Abby_, she thought in some relief. Ziva had a hunch that even if she found this harder going than other times, Abby would still be their guide to helping Tony get through the weeks and months ahead.

After all ... she was pretty sure no one else at NCIS would have thought to bring a farting hippo to work...

***


	4. McGee

_**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed; the original story and scenario from "Believe Again" by Montana-Rosalie, FFN story ID #5047152 .**_

_A/N: the spin-off that won't die ... M-R, thanks for your beautiful story and Mari83, thank you for reading this one, even with all the disclaimers attached!_

_Reviews of all shapes, sizes and persuasions welcome._

**WARNING: installments not posted in chronological order!**_ If you've gotten this far and didn't see this yet, the chronology is: 3. Abby, 4. McGee, 2. Gibbs, and 1. Ziva. Blame the characters for appearing one by one to bug me for inclusion well past the original, planned-as-a-one-shot first chapter..._

**Believing still**

I.

It was late Wednesday and Tim could feel the tension in the squadroom hanging thickly in the air. Bad had gotten worse, and his headache increased accordingly. He tried to recall the last time he'd made it through a whole day without a headache, and quickly gave up trying. It had been _that_ long.

Things had been painful and awkward since the explosion that had injured Ziva and Tony many months before: first losing two agents and making do with two temps, neither of whom ever quite clicked with Gibbs, then trying to get back in some rhythm when Ziva came back in the field ten weeks later, with a newly transferred special agent making an awkward fourth. A pall remained over the previously well-oiled team. Not a day went by that Tony wasn't missed. No one would say it, but had he simply died of his injuries that day, they all would have grieved and then mourned for a time, but then they would have moved on – as they had with Kate ... as they had with Director Shepard.

But in a somehow typical, DiNozzo fashion, Tony hadn't just died, but wouldn't wake up either. And his lingering in a coma, from weeks on into months, haunted them all, imposing guilt when they wanted to move on, exacting a chronic concern for his health and survival from each of them, and feeding the delay of the inevitable: the team would need to coalesce into a new unit soon or be scrapped, to be rebuild from the ground up.

Tim knew that Gibbs fought for time; Palmer confessed he'd overheard Gibbs tell Ducky that he was giving the team six months before he'd sit the others down to tell them to suck it up or get out. Because it was Tony, Gibbs was no more willing than Abby or Ziva to write him off "early," and despite Dr. Mallard's gentle insistence that a six month coma, especially after the injuries Tony had suffered, was likely to leave lasting effects that would prevent DiNozzo from ever rejoining the team, Gibbs dug in for the long haul. The boss's dogged support of Tony was admirable, Tim thought occasionally – but it wasn't exactly good for the team.

McGee knew the basics of the relationship: Gibbs had discovered DiNozzo when he was an underappreciated, fledgling detective in Baltimore's homicide unit, but the rest was apparently some magical, unspoken history, and Gibbs had found a special place in his stony heart for the unconventional agent in the same way he had a soft spot for his Goth forensics specialist. At least Ducky had convinced Gibbs that even for the stubbornly indestructible DiNozzo, after six months, the prospects were bleak. So six months it would be, as far as Gibbs was concerned, and despite the lack of any change in DiNozzo he'd stuck with it, apparently even getting Vance to see things his way. But through it all, the ride had been rocky – for all of them.

Tim gritted his teeth, glaring at his monitor as he completed his report of that day's investigation. _And I thought Tony could make things miserable when he was __**around**_, he thought uncharitably, venting his frustrations in the privacy of his thoughts. _He'd think it was pretty damn funny that he managed to throw me more problems just lying there, out cold, than when he was actually here... _

McGee liked to think he was a compassionate person, and that Tony's injuries, and the hurt felt by those on the team as a result, brought him as much grief as they did anyone. He even found he missed the trying special agent more than he'd expected. Without Tony to defuse Gibbs' ire or to lighten the mood, no matter how irritatingly, the days were more difficult, more tense ... definitely longer ... and less satisfying. DiNozzo had been a human pressure valve for the team all this time and had made it all look so simple. Without him – especially in the circumstances of his loss – those left working were having difficulty coping with his absence. Tim missed him too, and understood, he thought, the grief felt by the rest of the team.

At least for the first few weeks.

But after a while, McGee found the continued mourning disquieting. Sometimes, he admitted very privately to himself, it was downright _irritating_. They had a _job_ to do, and no one was really getting back on track. Gibbs seemed to miss his right hand man so much that he let the mood stay morose and gloomy, not smacking anyone back to focus as they should – as he _would_ have done, had it been anyone else who was out. Ziva was distracted and edgy, not a good combination for an assassin; Abby was still quick to cry and wasn't sleeping well. Even Ducky, who had lost more colleagues and acquaintances than any of them, had lost some of his usual enthusiasm. To make matters worse, Gibbs never designated a new senior field agent in either name or responsibilities; he was doing more of the work himself that he would have had DiNozzo do. Tim suspected he didn't think any of them were up to the task – and that didn't help his mood either.

Though he never dared voice it, Tim thought they all just needed to get on with things. After all, it wasn't as if his co-workers' demeanor would have any impact at all on Tony's staying in or coming out of a coma, no matter what Abby might insist about positive vibes and the power of prayer and all the other spiritualistic stuff which ought to be out of character for a forensic scientist, anyway. They all still went out to visit, as they could; it just didn't matter what they did or didn't do at NCIS as far as Tony's recovery was concerned. It was, however, making a huge difference in the way they were working their cases.

Tim was close to speaking his mind to _someone_ about it – held back only by the almost certain ire Gibbs would have had in hearing it, and his even greater fear of Gibbs' reaction if he went over his head to Vance – when a miracle happened: after four months, Tony finally decided to rejoin the world. He came out of his coma.

And with his return to consciousness, and his diagnosis of resulting blindness, came a whole new round of despair and mourning and foundering within the team.

Tim tried to mourn again with the others, but his heart wasn't in it. He thought he understood what it might mean for the special agent, for whom his job meant so much; he knew the gravity of the diagnosis and knew things would not be easy for someone like DiNozzo. He felt the same sorrow, or so he thought, as the others did in speculating what it would all mean for Tony and what lay ahead for him.

Apparently, though ... not _quite_ the same.

It had been earlier that week – Monday afternoon. DiNozzo had been back among the living for about ten days; in another few days he was scheduled to move from the long term bed at the Naval Hospital to their rehab facility. Tim had gone out a couple times to visit, usually with Abby or Ducky, finding it easier to go along with one of the talkers, so he didn't have to think of much to say. On Monday afternoon he happened come by when both Abby and Ziva were there, and though he partly chalked things up to happening because Ziva was there too, and his uncomfortable suspicion that _something _new was developing between Ziva and Tony – he managed to say _something,_ he wasn't sure what, that threw ice water on everyone in the room. Tony had suddenly paled and gone quiet; Ziva and Abby threw him dark, murderous looks. He tried to mouth his confusion, so as not to bother Tony even more, but the women wouldn't look at him and in short order, Abby said she needed to go and McGee would take her.

She wouldn't speak to him on the way back; neither of the women would discuss it the next day. By that next afternoon he begged Abby to tell him what he'd said that was so awful, and when she finally accused him of fishing for Tony's job, he simply threw up his hands, turned and stalked off in frustration, having said nothing remotely close. He knew better than to try to discuss it with Ziva.

Since that day – and _whatever_ he'd said – _every_one had given him the cold shoulder. Abby must have said something to Ducky because the Scotsman barely would say a word; Palmer was too busy to see him. Gibbs may not have known what was going on but had to have seen the response he was getting, because the supervisory agent's mood was getting blacker the longer it continued.

_Since when was Tony elevated to saint?_ he groused to himself. And what the hell could he have said to evoke such a response? He _thought_ he'd been supportive – wasn't he talking about the rehab program Tony was soon to start? Tim stopped typing and let his head drop back for a moment, massaging his temples. _How the hell did this happen?_ he asked himself for the fiftieth time that day. _How the hell does DiNozzo have so much power over the place?_ He'd long since given up wracking his brain for what it could be and vaguely wondered if women could psychically transmit PMS from one to another.

"_McGee _– "

Gibbs' wasn't loud but his tone was almost menacing – Tim's eyes flew open to see the senior agent glaring at him, leaning over his desk.

"I ... I'm almost done, Boss. Another couple paragraphs..."

Gibbs ignored him. "Look – I don't know what the hell you said to Ziva and Abby the other day, and I don't care. _Fix_ it."

He knew better, he really did, but the words came out anyway, before his brain could stop them. "But Boss – "

"Hey!" Gibbs snapped, "whatever it is, it's got the whole team off-center and you're apparently ground zero. Am I wrong?"

McGee's sense of frustration for the unfairness of his predicament caused only a moment's hesitation before he admitted, "no, Boss."

"Then _fix_ it – or I will. Understood?"

"Yes, Boss," McGee managed.

"You got one day." Gibbs turned to go.

"But..."

"Friday, McGee." It wasn't fifteen seconds before the elevator doors closed and McGee was alone in the squadroom.

II.

Thirty-six hours ... no ideas ... and no one at work speaking to him.

"'_Fix it,' he says,"_ Tim, alone in the darkening squad room, thought morosely. He might have felt out on a limb when DiNozzo was around, especially all those early years with the razzing and pulling pranks, but Tony had never abandoned him, and, as long as Tim was braced for a derisive snort or hoot of disbelief at his hopelessness once in a while, he'd never before felt as if no one was there for him.

It was bad enough when Tony was unconscious. Now that they'd determined he was blind, it was worse, as if he had been injured all over again, as if the wonder-boy, Tony DiNozzo, should have been impervious to injury. _He_ seemed to be taking it okay, maybe a little subdued, still, but Ducky said it could be the lingering effects of the coma, although even Ducky didn't think so. "It's all such a drama," Tim grumbled to himself, feeling a small niggle of guilt but mostly irritated at what a big deal it had all become. _It's not going to do Tony any good, everyone treating him like it's the worst thing on earth. They didn't even treat the plague 'like the plague...'_

Tony hadn't, either. He'd pressed to come back early and had wanted to come back even earlier. If they kept wailing and gnashing teeth over this now, it might just make him feel worse. Rick always said...

_Rick._

_Why hadn't he thought of just calling Rick?_ Tim pulled out his phone and simultaneously shut down his computer as he thumbed his contact list to find his former dorm-mate's number. No matter what people here might think, he knew he could vent to Rick, who might actually have a few ideas of his own about it all. He hit the call button as he hiked his backpack up onto his shoulder and left the squadroom to the cleaning crew.

As it rang and the elevator opened for him, McGee glanced at his watch. It was three hours earlier in Sacramento, so he might just be getting home for the evening.

"Hello?" a feminine voice, sounding a little out of breath, answered the phone.

"Becky? Hey – it's Tim..."

"Tim? My God, you didn't drop off the planet? Rick swore you had, but I told him you'd probably just found your soul-mate..."

Tim smirked tiredly. "You couldn't be further from the truth, but I appreciate the vote of confidence. How've you been?"

"Great – you? _Hey_..." she yelped indignantly, as the phone was jostled a moment, followed by a giggling, yelped, "'bye Tim! Be good..." followed by more phone football...

Tim snorted, suddenly wondering how he'd never noticed before that one of his best friends from college was actually an awful lot like Tony DiNozzo in some ways...

"Holy crap, is this the world-famous Thom E. Gemcity, who doesn't pick up a phone anymore?" Rick's voice boomed in his ear. "You finally gonna write that pre-quel about the wacky antics at MIT?"

"Oh yeah, _that_ would be a best seller," Tim drawled, and felt a wave of nostalgia for how much he missed school and his friends. _And he'd thought that college had been rough,_ he reflected briefly on his naivety of the time. "You doin' alright?"

"Couldn't be better. Or, well, yeah, I could be, if I were a world-famous author. Can't be that hard, can it? You need a ghost writer? Or better yet..." the voice started settling into its more usual, cheery tones, "set your next book in Sacramento and come out for some fact gathering. It's great out here this time of year..."

"It's great out there _any_ time of year," Tim smiled wearily, "as you keep reminding me..."

"You know DC's a swamp. Tim, you doin' okay?"

The man still knew him too well. "Of course – world-famous author, remember?" he tried wanly.

"You never did learn to pull that poker-face, did you?" Rick said, his tone sounding more sympathetic than any around him had in a while. "So ya gonna confess any time soon, or do I need to get a second beer for this call instead of just one?"

III.

"I thought I finally got thru with the 'not all blind guys are created equal' speech when you finally caught on that I had nothing in common with your great Aunt Tillie who'd lost in all in a stroke," Rick was saying. "I don't know any more what to say to a guy who just came out of a coma than you do, Tim."

"You probably have a few more ideas about the blind part," McGee grumbled. "And you and Tony are a lot more alike than..."

"Tony? You mean 'Tommy?' This is 'Special Agent Tommy' we're talking about?"

Tim grimaced. "Very funny. Yeah. Yeah, Tony is 'Tommy...'"

"Wow." There was a pause on the other side. "Yeah, I can see why you'd think of me, then," the man chuckled.

"C'mon, Rick, my boss is ready to kill me and I don't exactly know what I did to get everyone bent outa shape!" Tim wasn't in the mood for yet another debate about his book's characters and the real people who'd inspired them. "What should I say? What did I screw up?"

"You're askin' the wrong guy, man." At McGee's objection, Rick broke in, "seriously, Tim – if you can't remember exactly what you said, how can I even start to guess what was wrong with it? Besides – we're _not_ all the same. And one of the most un-same things in this scenario is that your guy has been sighted all his life and now, bam, in – what, his thirties?"

"Yeah..." Tim nodded.

"So bam, in his thirties, he's suddenly blind. I've been blind all my life..."

"You said you didn't lose it until you were three." Tim protested.

There was a snort. "All my life that _counts_." At the sound of another objection, Rick again stopped him. "For real, Tim – a three year old is about as malleable a creature as they come; they adapt. And I didn't have re-learn anything, really – I just kept going from where I was. All the stuff like reading and math and getting around without Mommy or Daddy came later, and by then, I was doing it all without sight, so no 'rehab.' Just ... life. Milestones. Growing up. Your friend Tony just had his world upended and if it was as recent as it sounds, he's probably still sitting there wondering if there's _anything_ he can do now." Tim could hear the verbal shrug. "Of course," the sarcasm began to resurface, "you _could_ just _ask_ the guy. I mean, after all – he gets pissed off at you for asking, you could probably duck before he makes contact."

"Rick, damn it..."

He was rewarded, not unexpectedly, by his friend's laughter. "Well, what did you _think_ I could say, Tim? Besides – how long have you known me – and how well do I like all the hand-wringing? Just _ask_ the guy what you said to bruise his feelings, make your apologies, and lay low until he gets his sense of humor back."

"It's not that simple," Tim began, "and I'm starting to think it's your fault that I'm in this mess. I'm too used to you, and when I went out to see him at the hospital, I just talked to him like he was gonna get on with everything – the way you would. And then when Ziva and Abby heard _that_ they got really angry, and Abby accused me of trying to take Tony's place, and I tried to explain but of course it just got worse ..."

"Oh, crap, Tim – you didn't get _women_ involved in this too, feeling all sorry for him?" Rick feigned horror, but a thread of reality was in his words too. "What's wrong with you? Don't you remember how much some of those weepy types wanted to make of everything?"

"But Ziva and Abby aren't 'weepy types' – especially not Ziva..."

"All women can be weepy types for someone they care about," he drawled. "So they've gone all mother bear on you. What about Tommy?"

"Tony."

"Tony," Rick conceded. "Did he get pissed off, or what?"

"He just ... I dunno, he just sort of went all quiet."

"And you haven't been back to talk to him."

Tim paused, then admitted, "no. I mean, I got it, both barrels, from Abby and Ziva, and here I'm trying to figure out why, when I did everything right in your book. They're angry, and Tony _did_ really look kinda kicked in the gut, and I couldn't exactly lecture them about how we all should really be treating him just like any other guy. And now, no matter what I say, it's gonna be wrong... and the Boss is pissed off too, and he doesn't know or care what I did, but that I better fix it."

There was a quiet snort of irony. "All because you forgot that I'm not Aunt Tillie ... and Aunt Tillie isn't me. And your friend Tony isn't either of us." Rick sighed. "Maybe he'll appreciate my way of looking at things in a year or two – but for right now, he's just starting a recovery from a bad injury, right? Maybe there's a waiting period before it's time to treat him just like any other guy."

There was another long pause, and Tim asked, "so? As someone who has no basis for an opinion in the circumstances ... what would you do?"

Rick thought a moment. "You pretty good friends with this guy?"

"Not really."

The staccato laugh of surprise burst through the earpiece. "Terrific!"

"Rick..."

"Okay," he sighed. "If it were me ... I'd go see the guy. _Alone_," he drawled, a twist of irony there, "and tell him that you're not sure exactly how you stepped on it, but you did, and it wasn't your intention. Tell him you had a roommate who browbeat you into being afraid to allow the slightest concession to his blindness, that it was conditioning under combat conditions, and you had no choice in your actions."

"'_Manchurian Candidate_?' He _is_ a movie buff." Tim murmured, miserably.

"Perfect. And then..." He paused, his voice carrying a soft seriousness, "tell him that you promise to ask first, not assume ... that you'll listen if he wants to tell you what helps and what's a hassle ... and that you're a good friend. After all, you already got the blind guy seal of approval once." Rick encouraged, genuinely. "Give him my number if he doesn't believe you."

IV.

Tim was pretty sure Tony would be alone that morning – Gibbs and Ziva were interviewing a suspect's employer, Abby was behind on processing her work and Ducky two autopsies waiting. Vance was at a conference. If others from outside NCIS were visiting or even knew that Tony was a patient here, they hadn't appeared any time he'd been around.

He wanted to see Tony before he transferred from his hospital room to the rehab unit; he wasn't sure why, but he had a feeling though it would be hard now, it might be worse there, at least after DiNozzo started working on all the training they'd surely have in store for him. He had a lot of hard work ahead, both to build back his atrophied muscles and to get used to being without sight. Tim knew that even in the best circumstances, it would be a lot to face. So he had to go today, before he moved to his new unit.

He waited only a few minutes after Gibbs and Ziva left to start a note that he had a dental appointment, in case this took longer than the interview – but stopped, reconsidered for a few moments, then wrote a simpler note that said simply that he needed a couple hours of personal time for an errand. It wasn't like Gibbs didn't read minds anyway, and since he ordered Tim to fix it...

He left the small sticky note on Gibbs's monitor and walked quickly to the elevator and out of the building, heading to his car for the drive out to Bethesda.

V.

The long term care unit was state of the art, but not exactly set up for conscious patients like DiNozzo, as the clientele was either long term comatose patients as he'd been, or those occasional nursing home patients who suddenly needed more attentive monitoring than the usual in such facilities. As he parked and came into the wing, Tim found himself wondering why Tony hadn't been shipped off to a nursing home months ago, as they would with anyone else not rousing from a coma but otherwise mending – maybe the special monitoring necessitated by his scarred lungs? A request from Director Vance? Or a special favor to the man who'd been injured saving the daughter of the Mossad's Director of Intelligence?

Whatever it was, Tony wasn't exactly ready for marathons or even midnight jaunts down the hall – but there really wasn't much of anywhere for him to go anyway, other than the small kitchenette at the end of the unit for staff and visiting family, and between his wasted muscles and lack of vision, the only times he'd been there was when a therapist practically dragged him out in the hall for a short walk or two. Any time Tim had been there, Tony was in his room, no further than the bedside chair.

This time wasn't too different, but as Tim neared the open door to Tony's room, he was surprised – and heartened slightly – to see that Tony was sitting in the chair, working steadily with a pair of moderately sized weights. He was alone for the first time Tim had seen him since he'd awakened. He was grimacing, even if he tried not to, as he slowly worked the dumbbells in alternating forearm curls, and Tim could see that the weight was still more than was comfortable for him. McGee frowned involuntarily, if only for a moment – the image brought home just how life-changing DiNozzo's injury had been, and how much work still lay ahead for him.

... but that wasn't why he was here. He wouldn't let his pace change until he came to a stop in the doorway. "Tony?"

"McGee..." _Not 'probie,'_ Tim noticed, filing away the thought for later, as he saw a look first of surprise, then of the guarded, defensive, humor he'd seen from Tony only once or twice before. "You cutting class? Isn't it way past time for all good agents to be lined up for Gibbs' morning headslaps?"

Tony's words had been crisp, his demeanor, brittle – as if too formal, distant – he'd seen Tony like this following other devastating losses – Jeanne Benoit, Director Shepard – when he felt responsible for the hurt or betrayal he believed he'd caused. But a part of that time was the pain of the loss Tony had felt as well. _Is that what he's feeling now?_ Tim wondered. _Why?_

Tony hadn't stopped the focused, painful work with the dumbbells he held, even as a thin line of sweat had broken across his brow. Tim frowned. "Hey," he tried, "what if I bring out a set of weights from the gym at work? There are some smaller adjustable ones, so you wouldn't have to push with th..."

"What's wrong with these? I think even you could do 'em; they're beginner's weights – for _girls_." The words were bitter, but Tony's demeanor remained distant, almost haunted. "I'm not going to drop back to less – I've lost too much time as it is."

McGee felt a surge of anger, given the circumstances. "Hey, it was you who gave me so much hell for trying bigger weights than I was ready for; you said that they'd ..."

"You were just trying to grow hair on your chest and show off for the typing pool – I'm actually trying to get my life back here," Tony muttered, finally bending forward to drop the weights on the floor and shove them sideways under the small table where he sat. "So that's why you came all the way out here, to play coach?"

_This was starting out just great._

"No, Tony," McGee frowned again, frustrated. "Look – I came out to ... to find out what I said the other day. I know you're pissed at me, and I just..."

"Why should I be pissed at you? I'm the idiot who didn't duck in time." DiNozzo shrugged, but he retreated some, too. _As if he blamed himself for getting hurt. This is definitely reading like those other times Tony thought he'd screwed up_, Tim realized. _Maybe no one had told him yet about the commendation and the fallen hero status he'd gained in the halls of NCIS these days..._

He had a feeling that even if Tony knew, it wouldn't matter.

McGee's frustration kept tingling, but not so much at DiNozzo – more at not being able to figure out what was bothering the former agent. "I'm not sure ..." he admitted slowly, "but I know you are. Or if not 'pissed' ..." He thought a moment, then tried "I said something that ..." He couldn't say _hurt_; Tony would never let it go. "...that just hit you the wrong way – but I never meant to. I'm just not sure what I said." Tim wished Tony would just tell him what it was, so he could apologize or do whatever he needed to do to get out of this hole he was in with everyone. "All I know was that we were talking about you getting out of here and over to rehab."

"...where ... they could probably figure out _some_thing for me to do." Tony's voice was almost a whisper.

And it all came clear to Tim. "Oh – oh, crap, Tony, is that what...?"

"As opposed to just ... hanging around here," DiNozzo interrupted. "Oh, they do have dead bodies to worry about out here, once in a while ... but so far, none of them have needed any investigation. Lucky for them, huh? 'Cause their live-in investigator is kinda ... on furlow. So..." he laughed, dryly, softly – without humor. "I guess it all works out."

McGee had felt a flush of heat color his face as he suddenly understood what the others had heard – and how different his thoughts had been at the time. And before he'd had a chance to say _any_thing, Tony was joking again, hiding behind his old reliable sarcasm. "No, Tony ... what I _said_ – and what I meant – was that they can figure out how you can do most of what you used to, just differently. They can look at what we do now at NCIS – how we investigate and what we use to do our jobs – and figure out how to do those same things with some sort of adaptive computer program. Word processing is easy; there are several ways to do that. And it's been a few years but even when I was back in school they had several conversion programs for maps and graphics, even for photos if you wanted them. They ought to be able to match what we use – what _you_ used – with something that would convert the data into a form you could use."

As he spoke, McGee wondered if Tony would listen to him, or if he'd just blow off his explanation – but to this surprise, Tony seemed to consider his words. After an awkward and, to McGee, a too-long, painful silence, DiNozzo's expression shifted, and he looked more settled, even a little relieved, to hear it. Finally nodding, Tony offered with a wan smile, "I should have figured that, McMotherboard," Tony's teasing – and his voice, at the moment – were ghosts of what they used to be. "Problem is ... you were right, even if you didn't mean it that way. I _can't_ do what I did before." His words were final and fatalistic, and Tim knew as certainly as he knew anything that, at this moment, Tony didn't have the first idea of what he could do with his life from now on.

"Why not?" Tim urged. He'd seen firsthand all the software and hardware Rick had available to convert damn near anything out there to something he would use, and knew that with some practice Tony could get right back on track. "With the programs they have you could still..."

"Notwithstanding that blind photographer we ran into a couple years ago, I don't think anyone, even Gibbs, is gonna be too crazy about my crime scene photos ... or my walking the scene for evidence." Tony's voice was too calm, too quiet. "And even if he was ... the stated job requirements for special agent include vision correctable to 20/20, McGee. Those days are gone."

"Are you sure about the requirements? Because..."

Tony snorted, his even keel rocked momentarily before he sucked it back, with some difficulty. Chewing his lip unconsciously for a moment, he finally managed, "yeah. Yeah, I checked that one out."

"Tony ... I'm sorry." Tim said, genuinely. "For the confusion, and ..." He trailed off, not sure what to say. "That sucks." He'd looked away for a moment, but when he glanced back up at DiNozzo, he saw a change in the expression that had seemed so demoralized before – so un-Tony. It wasn't all that much better now, but there was a glimmer of curiosity there, a bit more of the old DiNozzo in it. Tim realized it might have been the most animated he'd seen him since he'd been injured, though it was still far from the usual.

"'Sucks...'" Tony mused, "yeah, leave it to the great novelist to come up with the perfect description for all this."

_Well, hell, Tony, what word do you want from me, if words won't fix thing? _Tim thought to himself. Shaking his head, trying to maintain his calm, he started, "Tony..." He fleetingly wondered if DiNozzo was just taking things out on him. He had to know damn well knew he wasn't minimizing things – didn't he? "I didn't mean..."

"... I know."

There was a new sound to Tony now that Tim was finding hard to reconcile, and in Tony's expression now McGee started to sense what it was. It was resignation, a caving in to circumstances, that just wasn't DiNozzo at all. _That was it, wasn't it, that went along with this sense of having no future that Tim thought he saw in him? _

"Look – NCIS is a big place," McGee reasoned, "and even if it's not field work, if you decided that you wanted to stay I bet there are all kinds of divisions where you could work. Or if not NCIS, other law enforcement agencies. Maybe it's not the same as in the field – but it's better than just staying at home."

And there was that curiosity again, even more insistent this time, as if DiNozzo was trying to figure out a new suspect's motive. He said nothing at the moment, the silence working to make McGee feel awkward all over again – Gibbs might work silence into an art form, but it just wasn't Tony's style. That made his quiet all the more disconcerting – and Tim feel all the more awkward.

"...but anyway," he tried once more. "If you thought I meant that you couldn't do anything now ... I'm sorry."

Tony snorted softly; in what emotion, Tim wasn't sure – until he spoke. "but I _can't_, McGee, not exactly ... not yet, at least. But ..." He paused again, long, then acknowledged, "... as you pointed out ... that's what rehab is for, isn't it?"

McGee still wasn't sure what was going through Tony's mind – sarcasm, that he didn't see rehab as holding much hope for him? Defeat, willing to go do whatever anyone else told him to do, not having any ideas of his own? Whatever it was, it still wasn't Tony and Tim was no good at knowing what to say, even under the best of circumstances... "Look, Tony, I..."

A sudden, haunted smile crossed DiNozzo's face as he interrupted. "That's the third time you said that, McGee. 'Look.' You know I can't, right?"

Tim blinked, as if slapped. "Huh?"

"'Look.' 'See.' Not something I'm doing so much now."

McGee felt a flash of irritation at being so misunderstood and he blurted, "c'mon, Tony, it's just an expression..."

"I know." The previously undecipherable expression became even more curious now, and even a little more animated – but for some reason Tim didn't yet understand, it was more DiNozzo than he'd seen this far, "but you're the only one who seems to be able to say those words in front of me now." After a pause, one in which DiNozzo was clearly working through some ideas, he added, "and you _were_ the first to suggest I get moving with rehab."

Tim sighed, "I just meant..."

"...because I think _you're_ the first to think maybe I can have a life after all this."

Again, McGee blinked. Tony's haunted smile had lingered; after a moment, he even chuckled – but it too was haunted, sad – lonely – as he went on.

"Gibbs says those John Wayne 'getting back on the horse' sort of things – but nothing specific. I think he's trying to figure out how _he'd _handle it so he can tell me what to do, but hasn't come up with anything yet. Ducky's just about as vague, saying I'll be just fine, but the stories it reminds him of aren't about agents going back to work. Abby and Ziva have both become completely Doris Day about it and just tell me to 'concentrate on getting better.'" He paused, and a haunted smile played around his lips. "You got some nerve thinking I can handle this."

In some surprise, McGee looked at the man who had made his life hell on so many occasions – or so he'd thought at the time. _Maybe he'd just worked to make him tougher and the tension of the job easier to take_, Tim mused. The Tony DiNozzo before him now was thinner, still weak from months in a coma – and reaching out for confirmation that at least one person in his life – just one person – didn't think blindness meant the end of the line. "I just figured there would be some movie reference you'd find for it," McGee tried.

The grin was almost genuine this time. "Oh, there's no shortage of melodramas about injured heroes struggling against the odds to get back, usually saving the day somewhere," Tony agreed. "I have much to live up to. The question is..." his grin softened only a little, but his expression making clear he was serious now. "Why do you think I can?"

"Because you're as stubborn as Gibbs," McGee said without dropping a beat, "even if you're noisier about it than he is. Because you beat the plague with only a 15% chance to survive it..."

"24%. It's the 21st Century, McGee – I had advantages they didn't have in the Middle Ages..."

"Okay, 24% – nothin' to it, then, right?" McGee drawled, but returned to the topic. "Tony, it _can_ be managed; millions do. If others can, you can. And there's a lot of adaptive technology out there to make it easier now than, say, a decade ago."

"So – nothin' to _this_, then, either?" Tim saw that Tony's question wasn't as derisive as he tried to make it sound. He seemed to be looking for some reassurance that apparently the others had not yet given him – or, maybe, they hadn't known how.

"Probably like recovering from the plague, with better odds," McGee tried, "but with your brain doing all the work, not your antibodies and immune system. Probably most of what you want to do, they can figure out a way you can do it now – maybe differently, but close."

"All but driving – and being a field agent."

McGee suddenly remembered how hard it had been to read Tony, even working with him on a daily basis, once he realized that there was a lot more to the agent than he let others see. DiNozzo's voice had been wistful just then, and Tim wondered again what was going on in his head with it all. "Better than dying in the explosion – or staying in a coma – isn't it?"

Another mused grunt. "Dunno about that yet, McGee."

Tim's eyes narrowed. If there was one thing he learned in his years at an Ivy League school in a competitive, high stress program, it was not to take any suggestion that death was preferable to living until you were mighty sure the speaker wasn't serious. "Tony – you're not thinking..."

A smirk. "Ignore me, McGee; I was hit on the head so hard I _didn't_ see stars afterward. It's just post-coma rambling."

The denial bothered Tim more than his initial statement had. "How many times have you watched _'It's a Wonderful Life?'_" he shot back. "Should I break into your condo and bring your DVD so you can watch it again?"

Tony opened his mouth for a quick comeback but wavered, then closed it. After a moment, he swallowed, then nodded. "That's okay – I think I remember the high points." He sat thinking another moment, then drew an almost angry breath, his words full of his frustration at the world. "What's wrong with you, McGee? Why, of everyone, are _you_ the one not afraid of me?"

"Afraid?" Tim hadn't expected the sudden change of demeanor – or the question.

"Not of _me_, of – of me, like _this_. Of me, _blind_. Of blindness. You're the only one not ..." He ran out of steam, then shrugged. "You're the only one."

Tim thought of a thousand responses but knew he owed Tony honesty. "My guess is that they're all still thinking what it would mean, to wake up blind, for you ... for themselves. That makes it larger than life for a while. And they're trying to figure out who you are now, what you're thinking ... how to help you get back to your life."

"And you just don't give a shit?" After a pause, Tony shook his head. "Sorry. I know ..." He trailed, maybe afraid himself to be too candid. "Of course you give at least a shit. You brought the DVD player, after all." He paused only a moment and asked, "did I ever thank you for that?"

DiNozzo was again retreating, now covering as he used to do with babbled irrelevancies and topic changes, and Tim suddenly wanted to give him the answer he sought – he owed both Tony and Rick that much. "Yes, you did. And – I've already been through the wondering what it would be like, and the figuring out how to deal with a blind guy. Not another agent, so not exactly the same, but enough to get yelled at until I could use the words 'look' and 'see' without stammering. I already had the 'afraid' part knocked out of me – by someone who can be a whole lot like you, sometimes."

That surprised him, Tim saw. But DiNozzo recovered quickly and smirked, "where, math camp? Although I can't imagine anyone like me at math camp."

"Believe me, I can't either." Again, Tony looked a bit surprised, maybe this time at the quick reply. Either way, Tim decided it was a good thing, in the circumstances. He vaguely wondered what Rick would make of the conversation, and decided this was close enough to his advice to just ask Tony what he'd said wrong and get on with it – as much as he ever could with DiNozzo. "It was college, actually. Rick was a suite mate, four rooms to a quad – I had to share a bathroom with him for two years. If that doesn't qualify as getting to know someone, not much does."

Tony was mildly interested, in spite of himself. "Just two years?"

McGee thought back about it and felt himself start to smile – he knew Tony would approve. "He moved out of the dorm and into an apartment – with his girlfriend."

And DiNozzo actually grinned – a real grin this time. "Must be the part that's like me."

"Oh, yeah..." Tim mused, remembering Rick's buoyant charm with the girls in their classes, especially with Becky – his last, best, and still steady love of his life.

"What's he do?"

Tony's question – and its odd tone– interrupted Tim's memories, as it struck him that no matter how off-hand and casual Tony had wanted it to sound, it was important to him. _He must wonder what other people do without sight_, Tim mused. "He's a biomaterials specialist. He works as a designer for a bioengineering firm out west – they develop medical devices and testing equipment, mostly." He saw the familiar glazed over look he and Abby got from the others on a regular basis, and grinned. "He's an inventor, Tony."

"Oh." DiNozzo's eyebrows went up, evidencing his surprise. For once, he had no ready quip in reply. Instead, Tim saw – what? Hope? Relief? Whatever it was, it made Tim think that maybe some day, if it wasn't too contrived, he ought to get Tony on the phone with Rick...

But if Tony had more questions, a soft rap at the door cut them off as Dr. Pitt came in. "Hey Tony – and Agent McGee, good to see you again."

McGee was impressed that the doctor remembered his name. "Dr. Pitt."

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but Tony's scheduled for his last stress test before we ship him across campus..."

"Isn't having McGee visit stress enough?" The old Tony surfaced with enough of his former demeanor to make the doctor chuckle, and McGee wondered if he felt compelled to perform each time someone else was there – probably acting brave and cool for Abby and Ziva, or confident for Gibbs and Ducky. What about him? Without knowing why, and having no reason to think so, Tim found himself believing that Tony didn't think he needed much of a mask with him – and he was surprised to find he wasn't insulted. In fact, in a way, it made him feel as if he had Tony's confidence...

"Tony, I'll see you in the lab in ten. Good to see you, Agent McGee."

"Thanks – you too." As he spoke to the pulmonologist, Tim stood, and turned back to DiNozzo. "I'd better get back, anyway. Gibbs will probably wonder where I am..."

Tony's eyes lit up a little with that. "Where does he _think_ you are?" he grinned conspiratorially.

"Just an errand – personal time."

Tony laughed. "You didn't _tell_ him that..."

"No. Left it on a sticky on his desk."

"Wow. And he hasn't called looking for you yet." He seemed to want to add something to that, but having nothing, let it drop, and his expression softened again. "Thanks for coming, McGee."

"I'll be back – but good luck with the new unit tomorrow." Even now, he wasn't sure what to make of Tony's expression, but wasn't entirely convinced Tony saw this as a hopeful first step in getting his life back yet, as Tim found himself hoping he could. "And – if what I said bothered you..."

"Nah," DoNozzo waved it away, minimizing the hurt. "I think in the long run I like it better when someone isn't so freaked out by it all."

Tim nodded, sagely, and noticed a transport aide coming toward Tony's room with an empty wheelchair. "I'd better go – they're coming for you. See you later, okay, Tony?"

"See you later, McGee – and ... thanks."

"Sure – " Tim turned to walk out of the room, smiling briefly at the aide passing him, and only briefly glanced back toward DiNozzo. The thoughtful look he saw on his former teammate's face suddenly registered, maybe more than anything else had that day, and Tim suddenly veered toward the stairs, unwilling to wait for the elevator – and possibly have Tony in there with him. With his visit, he had gotten an image of Tony firmly in mind as a man starting to heal, someone who would get to work on his recovery and not let things beat him – and, irrationally, he was afraid that seeing Tony's still too thin frame being loaded into a hospital wheelchair and passively being pushed across the medical complex for another test would ruin his new-found belief in his teammate.

And he wasn't going to let that happen.

He jogged down the stairs and stepped out into the bright sunshine. He blinked a moment as his eyes adjusted, and wondered fleetingly if it would be for Tony like it was for Rick, unable to use any of the light but still bothered by its intensity.

He shook it off, resolute in his decision that he would remain positive, that the old Tony was still there, not far below the surface, and with just a little more time and practice, DiNozzo would be the same irritating, obnoxious, talented investigator he'd always been. So he wasn't quite there yet. But McGee would hold on to hope.

He had no idea what he would do to fix things with Abby and Ziva and Gibbs, but for the moment, that wasn't important. He'd found what had gotten him off-track with Tony and, he thought, fixed it; he even dared to believe that he found some fears in Tony that he might have helped allay. And those things were far more important than the temporary ire of his colleagues.

And one day, Tony would break down and call him 'Probie' again, something McGee never thought he could miss, but now desperately wanted to hear. He knew he would some day; he had faith he would hear it again in all the patronizing, belittling, insufferable glory DiNozzo had to give the word.

It would come. And when that day came ... _then_ Tim would know that everything would be fine...

***


	5. Ducky

_**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed; the original story and scenario from "Believe Again" by Montana-Rosalie, FFN story ID #5047152 .**_

_A/N: continuing the spin-off, again with thanks to M-R for letting me play with your original idea. _

This is a collection of vignettes, each revealing the reaction of a character to DiNozzo's injury, some over time and at different points in his recovery. **IF YOUR PREFER YOUR STORIES IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER:** installments not at all in the order that they would have occurred; this new one even includes a flashback... if you prefer reading them in order, they would be this one, with Ducky (Ch. 5), then Abby (Ch. 3), McGee, (Ch. 4), Gibbs (Ch, 2) and Ziva (Ch. 1).

**Believing still**

I.

Over the years, Donald Mallard had been called upon to be a second opinion and medical interpreter for Jethro Gibbs and team nearly any time one of his people – or Gibbs himself – was injured. They all trusted him; they looked to him to tell them what was going on, if the care their teammate was receiving was what it should be, what to expect – and how to will their injured member back to being just as good as before. He appreciated their respect, but it was a part of his job that he didn't relish – it was not his specialty, and often occurred in painful or troubling circumstances. At times like these, it put him in a position he did not find the least bit comfortable.

It had taken Gibbs his first few years as a supervising agent, but he had found a way to cover all bases with his team by requiring any agent who wanted to work for him to sign a medical authorization – highly unethical and most likely illegal to demand such a waiver, Ducky knew, but it was always provided. The authorization gave blanket permission to any medical treatment provider caring for one of Gibbs's agents to tell their boss – or the director – any and all medical information requested about an injured or ailing agent which would otherwise have been strictly confidential. It made life much easier and faster for Gibbs; he didn't have to resort to trickery or threats or ineffective court orders to get the information he wanted, and over the years, his team had become nearly as demanding as Gibbs when one of their own was at risk.

Ducky had always been a bit surprised that no one balked at giving up such privacy to their boss. Maybe they just figured Gibbs being Gibbs, he'd get the information anyway, and they didn't want to suffer his irritation by making it difficult. But oddly enough, none of Gibbs's agents ever questioned the requirement, or seemed the least bit uncomfortable that their boss could so easily get to such private information.

Until Tony got the plague.

The authorization certainly allowed NCIS's senior medical examiner as well as Tony's supervisory agent full access to every iota of medical information available during DiNozzo's illness and recovery. When first Tony came back after his hospitalization and sick leave, Gibbs had sent him down to see the medical examiner, requesting a second opinion on the wisdom of allowing DiNozzo an early return to duty. And it was during that examination that Tony made his request...

"Ducky?" He'd sounded so serious, suddenly, for Tony, and Mallard knew that his bout with a frequently-fatal disease must have had some effect on the agent. "That permission form that we all had to sign for work here, giving you and Gibbs and the director access to our medical information – is that a requirement for NCIS?"

He could still remember that moment so clearly, how he stopped his exam to look back in the agent's eyes – eyes trusting him to tell the truth. "No, i'tisn't," he'd said evenly.

"Something Gibbs wanted, so he'd know what was up with us?"

He'd simply nodded, silently, in response, and watched as DiNozzo thought it over for a moment. Clearly, the thought bothered him. After another few moments, though, when the younger man said nothing, Dr. Mallard had continued his examination and pronounced him foolish and pigheaded for returning so soon, but acceptable for a trial run of a day or two to see how he fared, as long as he didn't tire himself or over-exert. At the pronouncement, DiNozzo just nodded, mind elsewhere. Still sitting on one of the cold, metal autopsy tables, Tony had finally spoken again.

"I think I want to change my permission form," Tony said softly. "I don't mind if you tell him about things like broken bones or twisted ankles or even those minor concussions we all seem to get in this job. But life-threatening stuff, Ducky..." His voice trailed off, and DiNozzo seemed to be looking for words to describe what he meant. "Kate stayed there with me, risking her own health as far as she knew, because they told her that I'd gotten it. Gibbs has done things over the years, taken chances or gotten obsessive, when he's on a mission for pay back – and I don't want to be responsible for that. If there are things that would slow down the team, or throw Gibbs off his game – I don't want him to know those things, Ducky. It's not like he could help things with worrying about them anyway, but he – or the others, as Kate did – might do something stupid they wouldn't do otherwise."

"My boy, it's not all that easy to separate out one thing from another, as you seem to be asking..." he'd protested. "A doctor either keeps his patient's confidence or he doesn't; he's not usually in the business of determining to dole out part of what he knows, and keep the rest confidential."

"But you could." Tony said evenly, his eyes not leaving his. "For the good of the team. Ducky, you know what I mean, and I trust you to know how much to tell." He wavered only for a moment, but then added, "please..." It had been a new DiNozzo before him then, the doctor remembered; not only more mature in his time with Gibbs generally, but apparently sobered by being so close to death.

In truth, he knew exactly what Tony meant, and he knew what he wanted – and why. But no matter how much he cared about Tony, and about any of them, Ducky just couldn't see himself put in the role of censoring information, especially from Gibbs – and certainly not doing so successfully. So he sighed, "I understand, Anthony, and I appreciate your confidence. But I just cannot make such a promise and let you think I would be able to hide such news from Gibbs. However, if you were to amend your authorization to remove Gibbs or anyone else from the list of those who could be informed of your status, or if you chose to simply rescind it, you could be assured that no physician who knew your medical condition, whatever it was, would be free to tell."

But DiNozzo had seemed to deflate a little at his words, and given how wan he'd already looked, the dark circles under his eyes and pale complexion still clear evidence of his illness, Ducky felt a protective compassion for the younger man. "Okay," Tony sighed. "I'll think about it."

II.

He'd heard nothing more about it. Apparently, he'd reasoned then, even if Tony had given it some consideration he'd decided not to make any changes, because full waivers remained on file, and any persons offering medical evaluation or treatment to Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo was free to discuss his condition and care with his supervising agent, their medical examiner and their director.

...and so now, as he stood at the light box, Tony's latest CT and MRI films displayed in sobering detail before him, Ducky knew that this scenario was precisely what Tony had meant, almost as if he himself had imagined such a thing occurring. And as a result, Dr. Mallard decided to exercise his better judgment for all involved, and honor Tony's request – which was why this information, which he vowed to keep from Gibbs and the team, weighed so heavily on his conscience now.

He stood in the darkened neurology office, looking at the newest images of DiNozzo's brain, again, frowning at what he saw in and around the occipital lobe. He sighed. Six weeks out, DiNozzo still deep in a coma. Thus far, Jethro had assumed that his medical examiner's reticence, his sadness for the downed agent was simply the obvious – his failure to wake up. Well, the rest would come in due course, if at all, but he knew how the news would affect Gibbs. And given Tony's wishes, given Ducky's intimate knowledge of how both men's minds worked ... for the first time in their history, Ducky made the decision to actively hide the information from Gibbs.

He hadn't even done so with Director Shepard's illness, and he'd been ethically bound to keep her diagnosis to himself; she had not authorized him to break medical privilege. Yet ... in telling Gibbs he was not at liberty to answer his questions – considering their long friendship and years working together – it was tantamount to admitting the bad news, wasn't it? He never actively sought to hide her diagnosis from him as he might have, only danced around the interrogation he got from his friend. And, he admitted to himself guiltily, when offered to Gibbs, it was practically an open admission, most likely because of his own selfish belief that Jethro ought to know.

But this situation ... _this time_ ... it was different.

The door opened behind him, and in the next moment the now-familiar form of Tony's neurologist, Talia Rosolov, came beside him. "They are maybe two hours old," she said in her soft Russian accent, in the manner of a familiar friend, without empty greetings or wasted words. The thought left him saddened, given why she knew him so well now.

"No real change since those taken a month ago," he murmured. "It would seem that your diagnosis is likely correct, Talia."

She nodded, lifting a finger to trace along the computer's image. "There was so much damage, here. There has been enough time that anything only a temporary result of the pressure would have resolved by now." Her expression softened as she watched the older physician's face crease in disappointment for his co-worker – his friend. "I am sorry, Doctor."

As the elderly medical examiner nodded, his eyes not leaving the films, the younger physician paused, studying him in curiosity. When she first had Anthony DiNozzo added to her caseload and learned that she would be meeting such a well respected forensic medical examiner, she was pleased, secretly hoping to wrest stories from him and hear about the real-life cases he'd helped solve, so much like those M.E.s on the countless shows on American television.

And he'd certainly been gracious, and had been so charmingly appreciative of her care for DiNozzo and her availability for his questions and concerns. But she had not anticipated that the doctor had been such a good friend of the injured agent and of the team of agents who came to visit him, sometimes alone, others in small, quiet clusters of two or three, more attentive and concerned and grief-stricken than many of the biological families she'd seen there.

So she had not bothered the doctor with her questions, but made herself available when she knew he would be there – and, not long after they had discussed her findings, she had acceded to his request that her diagnosis remain confidential, not shared with the others. He needn't have explained, but he did, knowing that her patient's boss might seek answers from her if he sensed that Dr. Mallard was holding out on him.

Seeing them from the distance of having just met them all, Tania understood: this was not just another co-worker to them, who for months had lay in a coma. She'd learned that his injury came from his selfless act of protecting his team-mate, the pretty, quiet Israeli whom Tania had heard singing quietly to DiNozzo, occasionally, when all others were gone, the hushed, lilting melodies that reminded her so much of the lullabies she'd herself heard, growing up – but Tania suspected the fact she sang in Hebrew was more for herself than for the man who lay so still. The sadness in this woman, healing because of his heroism, the mourning in the whole troupe of oddly-matched compatriots - the computer-nerd who so earnestly asked her approval for installing the DVD player he'd brought, the tearful, sweet girl whose appearance and apparel frightened the staff until they got to know her, and the tall, silent man whose guilt and pain radiated from him like a fever, when he was alone with his agent...

She understood. Dr. Mallard – Ducky – explained how close they all were, how they worried about their Tony every day, and how they had dangerous, stressful jobs with NCIS. The fact that their colleague would most certainly be blind once he awoke – if he awoke – was not something they needed to know. Not yet.

_...because if he did not survive the coma, and they knew the truth, more than only Dr. Mallard would always wonder if the end had been blessedly beyond Tony's ability to process, or if he went to his grave, after those fleeting moments of consciousness they believed he'd had, aware that he was unable to see... _

It would have haunted them all, now and forever, and they grieved enough now as it was. Talia certainly saw it in all of them and in the sweetly dedicated way each of them drove out from the District to Bethesda, as they could, to sing and talk and watch DVDs with their fallen comrade. Dr. Mallard was right to keep this from them. If the time came, there would be plenty of time to confirm that the diagnosis suggested to them early on had most assuredly been correct. Until then, they had no need to know the full diagnosis of his injuries.

III.

"Dr. Mallard ... it's Talia. I'm so sorry to disturb you at this hour..."

Ducky had long ago learned to sleep with one ear open for the phone, usually Jethro or one of the team calling with a new case, a new body ... a new development. However, it wouldn't be entirely unexpected to be something else. In recent years had dreaded a wee-hours call from the nursing home that might tell him that his mother had finally passed on – and in recent months, he feared getting the same call from Bethesda, about young Tony.

With this night's call he felt am immediate dread, hoping it was simply another team needing his services. He knew it wasn't a call from Gibbs, who had taken his team overseas on a hunt for a terrorist cell. Fearing only bad news, his heart sank a little hearing Talia's quiet, apologetic voice at 2:40 a.m. He sat up quickly, and threw back his blankets, arising for the early A.M. drive he somehow knew was ahead of him.

"No worries, my dear..." he pushed her mentally for more, quickly, for the news to be done and over with, as he pulled out his trousers and fished for a shirt and tie. "What is it?"

"I am so sorry to bother you in the middle of the night like this, but I did not want to wait until morning. I would not have called family for something like this," she apologized, "and maybe should have waited – but in the circumstances I thought you would want to know..."

"It's alright, Talia," Ducky tried to hide his frustration with the neurologist's sudden indirectness, so unlike her. "Is Tony ... is he still alive?" He suspected DiNozzo's condition had suddenly taken a bad turn; he could only hope that she apologized because it was merely a minor downturn...

"Very much so, doctor; I'm sorry you misunderstood me – " the woman's voice carried her surprise, both at his reaction and, possibly, at her news. "I believe Mr. DiNozzo is waking up."

IV.

Things had happened quickly after that, Ducky's medical training and experience kicking in to keep him calm, focused ... and willing himself to take things only one step at a time. There would be no telling what permanent damage Tony had suffered after a severe head trauma and four months in a coma, beyond the identified vision loss; there were too many problems which might occur. In addition, it might be a false alarm, and it might be that Tony was simply moving to a chronic vegetative state in which he might respond to some stimuli but never quite rejoin them.

Ducky knew all this and had even been reminded of it all by Talia, during her call. But given all the years Donald Mallard had known Anthony DiNozzo, he was willing to bet money that Tony would beat the odds.

Which was why, as he headed toward his car, he made his own call and felt some relief when he heard the familiar, gravelly voice answer, just a little more gravelly with sleep. "Ducky...?"

"Yes, my dear, it's me." He tried to keep the rising excitement out of his voice and focus on all that might lay ahead. As it was, he had some serious explaining to do. But if Tony was waking up, he would need his 'family,' there, which for now would have to be himself and Abby. And if Abby were to be the steady, supportive presence Tony would need – and which he knew she could be – she had to be brought up to speed quickly. And what better way than a quiet conversation, in his car, as they drove out to Bethesda? "I'm coming to get you and will be there in thirty minutes. Tony's doctor thinks he may be waking up ... and I think we need to be there with him when he does..."


	6. Tony

_**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed; the original story and scenario from "Believe Again" by Montana-Rosalie, FFN story ID #5047152 .**_

_**A/N:** Continuing thanks to M-R for the original idea and not minding that I've gone crazy with it. _

**More A/N:** I wasn't sure about adding a Tony chapter and I'm not sure this is what anyone might see as fitting – but at least for my image of Tony, I'm pretty sure it's how he might handle things, at least in some of the moments he's alone with his thoughts or has to come face to face with reality. I still find I prefer to write Tony from others' points of view, and not his own – I'm not sure Tony is the type who wants to be alone with his thoughts (and so the constant input of movies?) Because of all this, I'm crazy curious to hear any reactions you may have to this chap. All input & comments welcome!

**IF YOUR PREFER YOUR STORIES IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER:** installments posted with the whim of writing but not the story's chronology, so if you prefer reading them more in order after the explosion in Montana-Rosalie's original story, they would probably Ducky (Ch. 5), Abby (Ch. 3), McGee, (Ch. 4), this one with Tony (Ch.6), Gibbs (Ch. 2) and Ziva (Ch. 1).

**Believing still**

**I.**

At the academy, they'd done some basic training about entering an unknown situation, but Tony had learned most of the techniques on the job – some in Peoria, but more in Baltimore, especially once he'd made detective, and even more with Gibbs: _read the room, fast ... find your cover; find your exits. Assess any threats – weapons, dirtbags. Neutralize any potential dangers, then assess what you have. Use every tool available to you to investigate, to figure out what's out there, what's out of place, what's expected, what's the target –_

Tony came to the third door on the right, and stopped to assess. _No sounds of anyone else in the hall; very faint sounds of typing from behind the door. The scent of brewing coffee floating near. Faint music from a cheap speaker at his back, probably someone's office. _Mouth dry, he drew a breath to steady himself, forcing back any fraying of his self-control. _No one behind; no voices inside, and still only the sounds of typing from behind the door. The typist was likely alone... _

He knocked, and the typing stopped abruptly. A chair creaked, and the room's inhabitant moved toward the door.

Dinozzo tensed slightly, senses alert for any threat, any needed reaction ... and the door opened.

"Tony, hi – right on time, great. Come on in."

**II.**

He'd always had an uncanny knack at guessing weight, height and build of just about anyone with only the barest input. Kate had accused him once of being a carney, a sideshow hustler. He might not have been bad at it, either. Y_ou'd've thought it would be the profiler who'd be better at that sort of thing, too_ – but he ran circles around her at it.

_Rounded and soft, 5'9", 227 pounds; not athletic, but no wheezing and fairly light on his feet, so maybe a college-professor type, the sort who walks a lot but not fast, more the art-museum stroll type... _

"So, you're settled in?"

"Yeah," DiNozzo nodded, his voice light – noncommittal.

"Need anything?"

"Nope."

"Did you get the grand tour, get an idea what's available and where to find it?"

"Yeah." He nodded again. "Thanks," he added politely.

He'd always been good at undercover, too. He'd gotten to play at various roles in Baltimore and with Gibbs, and it was always one of the best parts of the job, the role playing, becoming someone else and getting into the part, slipping into another skin. It trained him to step outside of himself and watch, just as if he was an audience of one to his own live show. It suddenly occurred to him how those two things went together, and maybe why he did both well: _playing at undercover means you have to read the other guy just right, know how to play him, to know what your next line should be, your next action._ At the revelation, he snorted very softly to himself, far too subtly for the other man to catch it...

"So you've been approved for six weeks here, but I understand you don't think you'll need that long." The statement was more question than anything. For a civilian, the guy wasn't too bad, pretty good, actually. But he was a civilian, and DiNozzo asked questions for a living.

Or ... he _did._ _Before_.

He drew a breath and smiled his best self-assured smile. "Well, I hope not. I understand that I'm free to leave whenever I like, though, right?"

"Of course," the other man, introduced to him last night as "Dave Perlman," sounded surprised. "You're not a prisoner, Tony."

"Oh – right," Tony willed a small, polite laugh as he covered his self-directed irritation. _Crap – that was sloppy. This isn't an investigation or a custodial interrogation, and any references along that line will make you. Get your head in the game and out of your fuckin' coma..._

But the other man went on, "actually, most people find they can use the full six weeks. Some even get an extension to stay longer, and that's when they're just working the one program, not having to split their time with physical therapy as you will be."

The man – _Dave_ – had shifted from an easy, welcoming tone to one that was a bit more wary, even challenging him, as if he had figured him out right away. _Shit_, DiNozzo thought. _Loosen up, relax ... the assignment is gonna be a while. You don't need to start off acting suspicious. _Tony smiled again, laughed softly and forced himself to relax his tensed muscles. "You've got a point – I guess I'm trying to avoid being a student again – too much flashback to being stuck in class."

"Well, I think you'll find the instructors here are pretty laid back – most of the program is individualized, and you'll have a lot of input about what's working for you and what isn't. We're just here to show you what's available out there, make some recommendations based on your interests and skills, and get you started in training for the things you want to try."

Tony nodded, a passive smile still plastered in place. "Sounds reasonable," he agreed.

"You know, Tony..." Dave's voice shifted again, the wary tone resurfacing subtly, and Tony worked to avoid showing that he'd heard it. _This guy has no poker face, I bet_, he thought, adding to his assessment. _Or if he does, he needs to control his voice better – especially in a place like this, with everyone is relying on their ears..._ "We would be able to do so much more for you if you'd be willing to tell us something about yourself – what your interests are, what you do for a living..."

"_Did,"_ he snapped, correcting the man immediately. "What I _did_ for a living, because..."

_Shit._

He had to hand it to Dave, he'd caved like an amateur – although he suspected it was less Dave and more his own inability to focus and stay above it all. He whacked himself in the back of the head, mentally, and imagined Gibbs telling him to get his head on straight ...

" ... because I haven't worked for nearly five months now," he resumed, his tone settling back to an even keel again, "and I don't think they're interested in me coming back."

"Well, something similar, then?"

"Not an option." Tony worked to keep his face impassive and pleasant, despite the stab of despair he felt in saying the words. _Not an option ... not even in Peoria..._

"Look, Tony," Dave had shifted, his voice dropped a little in volume and timbre; he leaned forward a little.

_Ah, Dave, now you're getting to what's been bugging you,_ Tony knew. In interrogation, the recognition might have given him an edge. Here, though – he suspected it wouldn't change things. It sure didn't hand him any glib explanations to offer in return...

"... you're not the first person in the program to want to keep your past confidential, either all or part of it – although, admittedly, it doesn't come up all that often. Usually it's either the circumstances that caused the injury or loss bringing the person to rehab, or it's the perception that the person can't go back to their former life. If you're not married or a criminal or a politician caught _in flagrante delicto_ with a barnyard animal, then it's usually the latter – just like what you said, that you think you _can't_ go back without sight. Of course, I don't know if that's your concern, but I gotta tell ya, way more times than not, you can get really close to what you were doing before. If we knew what it was, we might be of some help getting you back there."

Tony managed to keep his expression perfectly neutral, nodding as if considering Dave's words. "But ... I can do the programs I signed up to do, either way?'

"Well, yeah," Dave sat back, _blinking, I just know it_, Tony assumed, _'cos he didn't expect that I'd just ignore his pitch._ "But we can make the time here much more productive and appropriate for _you_ if you'd let us – just give us an idea of what background or education you have, what you did before."

Tony nodded again, this time unable to hide the smirk. _Play with guns? Shoot at people, __**kill**__ them, for a living?_ his thoughts offered. _Make sketches and take photos of dead people? Walk the scene, gather evidence?_ "Trust me, Dave – nothing too translatable."

"Tony, I..."

"Look – " His voice escaped him; it was like steel, like _Gibbs'_, commanding, allowing no quarter – and he immediately back-pedaled mentally. "– Dave – I appreciate your interest, but ... _believe me_ ... there's nothin' there to work on. I promise I'll give some thought to what you said, though – okay?"

There was a pause; he felt himself being assessed. _Disconcerting to be stared at, but okay if it makes ol' Dave here think he's won something,_ he decided, _'cos maybe he'll leave you alone..._

"So you were a cop."

Tony blinked in total surprise, and knew that his reaction was as strong a confirmation to the other man as an admission would have been. _Shit, _he thought again._ So roll with it, DiNozzo, _he could hear his mental Gibbs prod him on_.._. "Ah ... good one, Dave," he smirked, nodding the point to the man assigned as his 'case manager.' "So ... you understand, then. There really isn't much point."_ And who'd've thought he'd ever be a "case," anyway? If Gibbs hadn't imagined this, no one would have, and since Gibbs had kept him on the team all this time, even he must not have seen it coming..._

The chuckle he heard in reply and Dave's own decision to 'roll with it,' further surprised him, shaking him out of his musings. "Okay, Tony – for now, at least. In the meantime, you refuse to give us a last name, it makes it kinda hard to file your paperwork in the alphabetical client listing, here. What do we call you – Mr. X?"

DiNozzo sat unmoving for the moment, the dawning realization of who actually won this round making him wonder what he had ahead of him, after all. Still, no matter what – he would not let Dave – or anyone – see him break.

He drew another breath, sat up straighter, and offered a quiet smirk. "What's wrong with just plain 'Tony?'"

"Nothing," Dave countered smoothly. "But I really was holding out hope for 'Mr. X' ..."

**III.**

Tony knew he was being assessed – irritating, frustrating, but not something new. Lots of times when he was undercover he'd gone through that moment, when the bad guys assessed, tried to figure out if he was who he _said_ he was. He'd always passed before...

...but those were bad guys. As far as he knew, Dave wasn't so much a bad guy, just .... just on the other side. Not the enemy, just ... just the other side. Like teacher vs student, boss vs employee ... dentist vs tooth ...

_Brain vs bomb?_

He shook off the urge to cave in and face the reality of the situation, and went back to sorting through this particular "assignment" just as Dave drew another breath to speak.

"So you _are_ a cop?" A statement, really, this time.

"Close enough."

"Oh, well then... you have some choices," Dave actually seemed to perk up. "Probation officer? Lawyer?"

"Yeah, right" Tony immediately snorted derisively. "I hate lawyers, so, yeah, let me go _become_ one. Just what I need to feel better about all this, become something I could hate even worse."

He paused, aware that his emotions had been kicked out of whack again by the simple suggestion – _really, he had to work on his control_ – and was also aware that it caused him to lose track of what Dave was doing. _Hard to track another's breathing and body movements when you're busy blowing your own gasket, DiNozzo_, he filed away. Listening again, there was no movement and barely any sound from the other, so Tony bought time by adding, "besides – doesn't that take, like, another six years or something? And they probably have a lot of _reading_ involved, too."

"Texts can be converted pretty easily to a format you can use. And it's not six years, more like three. You have an undergraduate degree, don't you?"

Tony grunted an affirmative as he considered Dave's reaction – smooth, cool, refusing to react to his tantrum. What he would have predicted for someone with some experience at the job...

"In what?"

"P.E."

"Well, why not teaching?"

Tony snorted again. "Oh, yeah, give me a whistle and a clipboard and put me in a gym with about thirty five bored hormonal teenagers in gym shorts. _That's_ gonna work – and it's kinda hard to score just about anything blindfolded," he griped. "And then there's spring semester, and driver's ed. Sounds like a great plan there, Dave." He felt irritation rippling under his skin, enough that he almost forgot to remind himself not to let Dave get to him...

But Dave was unflappable, now that he had the upper hand, and remained just slightly bemused by it all. "Then another subject? What was your minor?"

"P.E." Tony smirked. "You're looking at the only P.E major/P.E. minor in my class."

"I have a hunch that it if was possible, you'd be the one to do it," Dave mused, "but I'm not buying it."

"Well, I did – on a technicality," Tony smiled.

"And you still won't consider the idea of law school?" The counselor countered.

Tony blinked a moment, reacting to the gibe, then finally grunted in quiet concession. "Probably not," he said honestly, suddenly feeling exhausted from all the effort it took to stay vigilant, without visual access to his surroundings. "Hate lawyers," he murmured. _Hate all of this_, his mind reminded him...

Which apparently had not been missed by his interrogator. "Well, keep it in mind. We have some time," Dave said quietly, then shifted, his voice taking on a softer but more serious note. "Tony, just let the people here do their jobs – they have a lot of good ideas for getting you back into things. Lots of tricks of the trade, some techniques and tools for filling in what you're missing now. Just ... don't write them off without hearing what they have to say."

Tony hesitated, suddenly not sure what the best response would be, cycling through denial and skepticism and disinterest in quick succession. But underneath was the overwhelming exhaustion that had suddenly hit him, with blind panic – _hey, funny, DiNozzo; __**blind**__ panic_ – behind them all. Swallowing hard, and pushing all the competing reactions back, he finally shrugged and offered a wan smile which he knew was as wide as he had in him at the moment. "Gotta do _something_ for the next six weeks, right?"

There was only a moment's pause before Dave chuckled, accepting the answer for what it was worth. "Fair enough," he was still chuckling as he stood. Not quite certain of what was coming next, Tony stood too. "But you're all set to get started – over in PT first, I see. C'mon, I'll walk you over."

DiNozzo heard another shift in the man's demeanor and knew he'd been caught at being weak. "No need for that, Dave," he laughed airily, "I can find it."

_A less stubborn part of his brain yelled that he was crazy, that he had no idea where PT was and was sure he'd gotten turned around at least twice since he'd been shown everything the night before..._

"Nah, I have to go over and pick up a file anyway." Tony heard it was a lie and, in sudden appreciation, decided he owed Dave at least another chance at things. "C'mon, Tony – I'm not going to have them blame me if you're late. And on the way over – maybe we can think up some more ideas for your second six weeks – you know, for when you're out of here."

It was a challenge, and Tony knew it. Maybe he _could_ guess height and weight like a champ, but he had a feeling he'd have a lot more guessing and scrambling to keep up with ol' Dave, here. Oddly enough, just that prospect poked the corner of his mouth up into a grin, and he felt a little less exhausted than he had moments before. "Yeah, Dave – you work on that a while. Just what _can _be done with a PE major _and_ minor?"

He heard Dave pull the door shut behind them as he followed DiNozzo out into the hall. "You know, Tony – I have a hunch you'll either be my most challenging case – or my most stunning success."

"Why not both?" DiNozzo grinned broadly now.

Again, a chuckle. "Well, now. Why didn't _I_ think of that...?"


	7. Vance

_**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed; the original story and scenario from "Believe Again" by Montana-Rosalie, FFN story ID #5047152 .**_

_**A/N:**__ Another thanks to __**M-R**__ for the original idea and letting me continue to have my way with it. _

_And a big thanks to __**Shashile**__ for patiently answering my geeky technical question about a small matter in this installment. It might have been a mini-moment, but I like to think the flavor of it was just what I needed – so thanks once again! _

If you're read all of these, it's apparent that my interest in continuing Montana-Rosalie's original story is more to see how Tony's injury affected the others in his world, not just Tony himself. There are tons of _Hurt!Tony_ fic out there, but not as much examining its direct effect on the others. This is just more of the same, Vance's turn.

**CHRONOLOGY:** installments posted as written but not in the story's chronological order. If you prefer reading in order, Ziva's, (Ch. 1), runs the full range of this chronology, and the others run in order from Ducky (Ch. 5), to Abby (Ch. 3), McGee, (Ch. 4), Tony (Ch.6), Gibbs (Ch. 2) and this, with Vance (Ch. 7).

_As always, would love to know what you think. Many thanks for reading and reviewing this far!_

**Believing still**

"Director? SecNav's office asking if you're available at eleven for a call."

Leon smirked as he glanced at the clock. "Tell them I am." He released the phone's intercom button and got up to cross the few steps to his file. _Not bad_, Leon thought to himself. _Not rushing to check on day 180. Made it to 181... _He pulled out the personnel jacket he'd need, just in case anything came up he needed to confirm, but didn't open the file. He did the same with the agent's computer file, opening it on his screen but not reviewing it. He knew he wouldn't need to.

The call came in eight minutes later, only two later than promised. SecNav's schedule hadn't gotten away from him too badly today, Vance noted, which might mean the man would be in a better than usual mood: it was usually either Congress or the press who made him late, and usually the ones who could upset the otherwise tough, driven man.

"Leon." The drawled voice, as usual, seemed to drip with sarcasm even in a simple salutation. "Good work with the SitRep on the joint op planned for Baja next week. We got an 'atta boy' from the Attorney General with the green light, which doesn't happen all that often."

"Glad to hear it, Mr. Secretary," Vance found it interesting that he began with the compliment, even though he'd expected to hear about the op approval this morning, too. _SecNav wouldn't have called himself if it was just the op. He'd have gone through channels..._

"You know why I'm calling, Leon..."

_Yep. Just still not quite sure why a personnel issue has gotten your personal attention._ "I suspect so, Mr. Secretary."

"Then how's your boy doing? I think he was due to come off probationary status, oh ... yesterday, maybe?"

_As if you didn't know._ "Yesterday, Mr. Secretary," he confirmed.

"And I suppose if you had to let him go you would have let me know."

Leon's mouth quirked up into a small grin. "I would have." He paused only briefly to go ahead with what he knew the man wanted – another SitRep. "Special Agent DiNozzo has done quite well with his move to NSF – he started site assessment rotation about three months ago, so is fully up to speed with the teams there. Plus, we had a somewhat unexpected issue come up – Shaw in MTAC started arguing that he should be assigned there, instead – a better use of his ... talents."

There was a snort. "What'd he do?"

Leon remembered the argument and his grin widened a little, a pride there for DiNozzo in spite of himself. "It seems that the analysts in MTAC never had a field agent right there with them for more than a couple minutes at a time before they rushed off after whatever brought them in. DiNozzo and his mouth were around, essentially full time, for all of about two weeks before they were going to him for his thoughts about some of the intel they were getting – they took him the 'what' and he helped them work on the 'who' and 'why.' I had to figure out how to post him in both units."

"So he's still an asset."

"Yes – in NSF, in MTAC – and, when they think I don't know, back in the Bullpen with some of Gibbs' team, kicking around ideas."

"Well, that's good," the man's usual sarcasm actually disappeared for a moment, only to resurface with his next words. "I didn't want to have to negotiate an international incident. Notwithstanding your relationship with Director David, it's a lot easier to keep DiNozzo on the payroll for all the usual reasons than to have to kick him off – or worse, to keep him on but have to keep an eye out to made sure he doesn't screw anything up." There was a pause. "Eli seemed pretty intent on making sure someone repaid DiNozzo's efforts to protect his daughter. I think he preferred it was us."

"Not going to be a problem."

"Good." Another pause. "So what did he say?"

Leon's eyebrows knit slightly, wondering how the Old Man knew. "Excuse me?" he stalled.

"DiNozzo. When you told him he was off probation, back on full status. What'd he say?"

_Busted._ And the SecNav was going to have some fun with it, just to prove he knew. Leon's smirk, now grudging, began to return. "Haven't mentioned it yet."

"And DiNozzo wasn't on your doorstep, on day 180? That doesn't sound like him," the Secretary drawled. "You didn't tell him, did you, Leon." It was a statement, not a question.

"No, sir," Vance admitted immediately.

"Any particular reason you didn't follow my orders?"

"You ordered DiNozzo's reinstatement as a probationary placement, to see if he could do the job, and that's how it was handled. You did _not_ specify that he be told of the conditions, Mr, Secretary." Leon allowed himself a small grin as he added, "I assumed you'd left the details of a routine personnel matter to me, as usual."

Leon heard another amused snort on the other end. "Just how often do you avoid policy directives for employee matters, Leon? That's the sort of thing that makes legal very nervous."

"Legal has plenty of other bones to pick with me. We both know that, sir." Leon grumbled, and finally relented, "DiNozzo's always been an asset, Mr. Secretary; I knew he still could be. His jacket is full of the things he's done for NCIS, including things that never should have been asked of him. He was injured in the line, looking out for the daughter of Mossad's director. If we owed anyone his best shot, it was Tony DiNozzo." He took a breath. "I think I've gotten to know him pretty well since I've been here, and it was my assessment that his success in this new position was in large part based on whether or not he thought _we_ believed he would succeed. No harm in not telling him all the details."

"You sound like Gibbs, taking care of his team..." SecNav mused.

"DiNozzo's _my_ team, too," he reminded his boss. "_And_ yours."

There was a long pause, and Leon finally heard the Secretary sigh. "For a good time to come, it would seem." There was another chuckle, a more rueful one this time, and the SecNav sighed again, "sometimes I feel like the dinosaur I thought the last SecNav was, Leon. Hell, these days, a Marine loses a leg in action on a Monday, gets shipped home Tuesday, gets a new leg on Wednesday and he's back in theater by the weekend, practically back to front lines. Unheard of." The old man was waxing philosophical at his expense, but at this point Vance didn't care. He'd approved DiNozzo's permanent status, and that was worth a few more minutes of his time. "Did I tell you how interested the SecDef was to know if DiNozzo was staying on?" his boss asked.

Leon's smirk was back. "No, you didn't."

"Oh, yeah. Seems some of his detractors are squeamish about letting permanently injured troops back on active duty, as active as that means now. He wanted me to tell you he appreciated your willingness to let a good agent back on the front line – and that it will make his job easier."

"Never hurts to be in the good graces of another Secretary."

The man's laugh barked in his ear. "True enough, Director." Leon heard some murmurs in the background as the subtle road noises he'd heard on the SevNav's cell faded. "Give DiNozzo my best, Leon – even if he doesn't know why."

"I'll do that. Thank you, sir," he added, still feeling a pleased relief that DiNozzo wouldn't have yet another blow to face.

"Carry on, Leon," Vance heard as the phone went dead.

Hanging up, he glanced at his calendar and clock, showing he had another fifteen minutes before his car would be around to take him to the Pentagon. Suddenly feeling a moment of nostalgia for his own team and his days in the field, he walked out of his office to clip, "MTAC" to Cynthia as he passed.

From the walkway above the squad room he glanced down to see Gibbs' senior field agent, Timothy McGee, at the large screen beyond Gibbs' desk, animatedly pointing out some highlighted lines to a skeptical Ziva David, who frowned up at the display. Gibbs, nowhere to be seen, still filled the room in their banter, the man's gift for investigation having polished their own, very different skills to make each of them as fine an investigator as he could ask to have in his Service. He stooped for the scanner to allow him access to MTAC and stepped in more slowly than was usual for him, just to pick up a bit of the chatter in the room.

He wasn't disappointed. As happened with some frequency, he heard the soft discussion between the watch officer and one of the analysts at a console off to the side. "...caught these signals across the port for the last couple days and posted an assessment alert, but Tony thought we should notify the RA in Annapolis, too," a younger, female voice was explaining. "The RA did some checking with the waterfront businesses and local LEOs, and was able to track the activity to some wannabe smugglers..."

"So it went to the locals?" the watch officer asked.

Vance neared to see the petite brunette nod. "A small time gang with some skill at electronics. Off our board," she reported.

"Good. Director," the watch officer noticed him and straightened to greet him. Leon thought he managed to request the satellite feed to the Bahrain office and obtain a follow up report on a previous assignment without revealing his interest in the previous conversation. He nodded curtly and left.

_Something so simple, _he mused._ DiNozzo's become the voice of practical police work and common sense around here. His cop-sense for follow up and connecting the dots seems to be missing in the generation of computer-savvy, book-smart and street-deprived recruits we've been hiring._

It gave him pause.

He remembered a time not long ago, in discussing DiNozzo, that Gibbs had accused him of wanting to turn the agency into more of a reflection of himself than of Gibbs. Well, it appeared he had – or, rather, he had turned the agency into a reflection of how he _thought_ of himself, only to ignore his own time on the street. And it took the talents of an irreverent, sometimes juvenile, blind agent born with a tarnished silver spoon in his mouth to get him to see it.

"Well, I'll be damned," he murmured about DiNozzo once again. _Something to tuck away for later_, he realized, as came out of MTAC and again paused to watch the activity below. Ziva had moved back to her desk, while McGee, phone tucked against an ear, was handing a printout to their new probie, Dwayne, the former Marine who might just survive to win Gibbs' approval for a permanent spot on their team.

The elevator opened, and Tony emerged from the rest of his new team with a promise to run upstairs shortly. "The devil speaks!" Ziva crowed at his appearance.

On cue, Tony snorted, but headed directly to her desk, her reaction clearly intended to let him know she was there and where to find her. "I hope you mean 'speak of the devil' – or_ maybe_ I do. I do if it's because it's lunch time." By the time he was done speaking he was grinning at her as she came around his old desk to sidle up to him and brush her fingers along his back, subtly but affectionately. "You people eating today?"

Vance watched the interplay he'd seen among them, before – DiNozzo's old teammates, at least, were fully attuned to providing him with auditory clues of his surroundings – Tim, on the phone, knew that was enough; Ziva's words were for location, and her soft contact with him let him know they weren't absorbed in a time-crunched investigation. Even the lack of growling or greeting or grunt from Gibbs spelled his absence, as much Dwayne's soft "hey, Tony" did his presence.

_Maybe the SecDef would like to come see how it's done_, Vance mused with a bit of pride as he turned back to his office. Behind him, Tim cautioned the others that they had a lot to accomplish before Gibbs got back, Tony volunteered for a sandwich run and Ziva announced she would help carry and work twice as fast on her return.

_Nope, _Vance assured himself._ Not a reason in the world to tell the guy he'd just been a probie all over again..._


	8. Tony & Abby

_**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed; the original story and scenario from "Believe Again" by Montana-Rosalie, FFN story ID #5047152 .**_

_**A/N:**__ Continuing thanks to __**M-R**__ for the original idea and letting me play in her AU and to Mari 83 for reading and offering encouragement. _

_Explanatory A/N: Chapters 1-7 center on how each chapter's title character reacts to Tony's injury and all that it means for the team, for Tony, and for the future. They have more than one character each, but focus on the named character. _

_From here, Chapter 8 (and beyond?) will be written as duets between Tony with another character, as he moves past his physical recovery and on back into his life, as he now finds it. _

**CHRONOLOGY WARNING:** as before, installments are not in the AU's chronological order. If you prefer reading in order of how events occurred, Ziva's, (Ch. 1), runs the full range of this chronology. The others run in order from Ducky (Ch. 5), to Abby (Ch. 3), McGee, (Ch. 4), Tony (Ch.6), Gibbs (Ch. 2) this one, with Tony and Abby (ch.8) and finally, Vance (Ch. 7).

_Many thanks for reading (even with the weird posting order). Reviews and comments of any sort welcome..._

**Believing Still**

I.

The sounds of Abby's lab could often tell those who knew her what kind of mood she was in before they stepped one foot inside – the volume, the choice of performer, or even an absence of sound gave one an idea what to expect. These days, it also gave Tony a head start he didn't have in the rest of NCIS: _music = Abby's in. _ And one of the most awkward and bothersome things he'd found on his return to the world outside the rehab center and his own little apartment – on his return to _work_, actually – was popping up in an office or department and not always knowing for sure if anyone was there. He'd already had a small taste of that in the hospital and at the rehab facility, and while it occurred to him such cluelessness would have been agonizing on a case, he'd convinced himself that it should be no big deal since he wasn't in the field. Uncomfortable, certainly, but after the first time or two he wouldn't even notice. He'd _thought._

It wasn't like it was on purpose. But if someone was sitting and reading quietly, not moving – _working,_ and therefore focused on the task and not on accommodating some shot-up cop back from medical leave and still figuring out which end was up – they would be as invisible to him as if they were some fleeing felon bad guy, hiding to ambush him. His new co-workers – he couldn't bring himself to think of them as "teammates," no matter how welcoming and genuinely nice they'd been – just hadn't started thinking about being noisy in his behalf, and he shouldn't expect them to – but even Gibbs had begun offering auditory cues, and many times before the scents of sawdust and Tide had reached him. And he hadn't caught onto the schedules yet, the _rhythms_, of his new post, as he had, unconsciously, with Gibbs' team, when one would go for more coffee or another would wander off for a snack, or when Darren – his new boss – new supervisor, he corrected; no 'boss' was named _Darren_ – would head up to the Director's office for the overnights from Europe or to MTAC for the daily feed from Homeland Security.

It would come, he knew. He would know more what to listen for and find auditory clues in what now seemed to be senseless noise. Maybe, even, they would have picked up a clue as his old team had and remember to speak as soon as they saw him coming – just to help out an old buddy.

But he hadn't yet, and they hadn't. And by Day 3, he was finding his new placement exhausting and unchallenging, all at once. He knew enough not to give up just yet, knew that new fits took time – but knew that he'd never fallen into a rhythm and comfort zone faster than he had with Gibbs, on his team, in the field, ten years before. The thought led as it always did to thinking about his team going out without him, and how it still jangled – _they've been doing it for months now without me, all that time I was still under, and then after, in the hospital and after ..._ Tim had been good enough to tell him it wasn't the same without him, that _no _one was the same without him, and with his words, and Ziva's, and Gibbs,' he'd actually started to believe it.

But same or not, they were doing their jobs just fine without him, same closure rate, same skilled investigation. And here on Day 3 for him, up with the other analysts, the morning that had started so quietly for Gibbs' team was suddenly swept up in a race to find a killer with access to a deadly biotoxin. He wouldn't let Ziva apologize for breaking their lunch plans as she called on the run, and wouldn't let her hear how painful it was to hear Gibbs – and _McGee,_ Gibbs' not-so-new senior field agent – shouting orders in the background while he sat in a climate-controlled, government-issue cubicle. "Just find the bastard, Ziva," he growled his encouragement. "Tell him you have better things to do than watch him mess with the Navy."

II.

The music wasn't infallible. Still, in all of NCIS, it was only Abby who set up road signs to what he'd find ahead, before entering her domain. And this time, he heard energetic, bouncy, and _loud_ – as in, "good mood Abby." Sadly, though, it usually meant super-busy Abby, too...

He stepped inside and tried not to wince at the volume. "Hey, Abs," he called – for her attention, not just to see if she was there, he noted again, gratefully – and heard a happy little gasp.

"Tony!" In only a heartbeat, the volume dropped drastically and her platform clad feet quick-clomped over to him, where he opened his arms for the expected hug. "You came down to see me!"

"Like I wouldn't," he grinned. "I told you I would."

She pulled back enough to look at him as she insisted, "I know, but you know how like when people move, they promise they'll stay in touch and they don't, or they send e-mail and just end up talking about the weather, and then you're like, 'how am I gonna go home for Christmas and not run into them because it's just weird now...'" Abby looked at the former field agent, still as surprised as when she saw him on Monday, back here at home on the Navy Yard, that by inevitable comparison to last year, in suit and tie, Tony was still handsome as ever ... and almost still as thin as when he went to rehab. She took a breath. He was smiling his "happy to see her" smile, but around the edges he looked a little shell-shocked, a little haunted. Her brow wrinkled in protective concern, and she threw her arms around him again. "I'm just so glad you're finally back here with us," she urged.

She felt him relax a little from some tension she hadn't sensed until he let it go. "Me too, Abs," he murmured. After a moment, though, it was his turn to pull away, and, their arms still loosely around each other, he asked wistfully, "but I caught you in the middle of fifteen different projects for Gibbs."

"Sorry – but yeah, and he's calling every five minutes for results, too. But you can stay and talk to me," she turned further and let her hand trail along his arm as she slipped from his arm. "It's not _thinking_ work yet, really, just lots of sample prep and set up stuff. Or," he heard her stop and snap back around to him, her voice spiking up hopefully, "did you have something for me, too? 'Cos I can work it in; you know I promised you if you needed ..."

He smiled, shaking his head. "Not yet – just came to say hi, and..." He wavered; unlike Tony, he paused, thought better of it, and shrugged, not finishing the thought. "Just passin' through."

Abby just knew Gibbs would be calling in with additional info needed or something for her to run any second, and would be frustrated with her if she didn't have her head one hundred percent in this case. She knew probably better than they did that they were running against time to locate the source and make-up of an apparent bio-weapon discovered in the homes of two of the Navy's intelligence specialists, killing one and bringing the other close to it. The lab techs at Bethesda weren't working fast enough to suit Gibbs, and he was determined to find what she needed to get her eyes on it, too.

But this was _Tony,_ and she couldn't do much more for Gibbs until she had more information, and Tony still looked as if he was a kindergartner on his first day of school, even if it was his third day back – and even as much as he tried to hide it, he looked a little lost. A little lonely...

_That's it,_ she knew. A glance at the clock solidified it for her. 11:50.

She clomped back the several steps into his personal space and put her hand on his arm. "Tony." She sighed, sadly, and said, "you know, when I first started here and there were those times when everyone went out on a case and it had been slow and I didn't have a lot to do – it would get so quiet, and I'd feel like I wasn't being any help, so I'd wander around and see if there wasn't someone who could use me. Not long after that Gibbs got me permission to start my own cold case files, so I could have something to do when that happened." She rubbed his arm supportively. "It won't be long before you'll have your own version of cold case files too, whatever you call 'em up there."

He swallowed, and the little smirk she saw from him was sad. "Shows, huh?

"It wouldn't if I hadn't heard Ziva tell McGee on her way out that she had to call you to cancel lunch." Abby looked guiltily at the former field agent and said, "Tony, if I didn't have Gibbs and a possible serial terrorist-killer on my hands, I would _totally_ go for lunch with you, drag you there, but I..."

"I know, Abs; I just thought I'd check in with you. I figured you'd probably be busy, too." He shrugged again, his smile smaller but more genuine, with just enough comfort in it that Abby knew he understood.

"They're _fine_, Tony," she said softly.

His "I'm fine" grin was back, and he laughed too airily. "I know. Why wouldn't they be?"

"Because..." she began ... and her phone trilled. "...sorry! Gibbs," she whispered to him, then punched the speaker button and said in a wholly different tone, "Gibbs!"

"Abby, we found some powder at Commander Deaver's house – we called a tech out to collect it and bring it back to you. I need you to ..."

"Check to see if it's the same; got it, Gibbs. Was it loose or in the same kind of container?"

"Both."

"Both? So maybe he's...?"

"We're sweeping the area now, Abs – no reason to think that he was involved until now, but if there's any indication that he manufactured it..."

"I can tell you that much now, Gibbs; he couldn't have. The stuff you brought me isn't home grown – unless 'home' has some serious, industrial ovens or 500 gallon vats that would have to be vented outside to avoid peeling the paint off the walls. This stuff starts off in liquid form that's deadlier to handle than the powder." Her voice took on the businesslike, focused Abby that Tony hadn't known he'd missed, along with so many other parts of his life that had dropped away. "He's gotten it from somewhere," she went on.

"Who? Where?" Gibbs' voice crackled over the speaker.

"I'll send McGee what I have so far, but in another hour I can narrow that list, depending on what Major Mass Spec finds in his analysis."

"Tell Major Mass Spec he has thirty minutes."

"Gibbs!" Abby complained. "_No_ one can intimidate Major Mass Spec into working faster, not even you!" The abrupt cut off of the call seemed inevitable, and with barely a beat, Abby turned back to Tony and saw that same sadness she'd caught before, but keener now, more immediate. And it hit her then: more than the actual loss of sight and certainly more than missing a lunch with Ziva, at the moment, Tony was devastated by being sidelined while his team was in the field.

She didn't know how much of it was for himself, for the chase and for catching bad guys and for the satisfaction of doing the right thing, but Abby knew he would be crazy with not being there to get Gibbs' six, or to protect Ziva and McGee, whether it was from dirtbags or a surly Gibbs. The _why_ didn't matter. All that mattered was that, even if his new job at NCIS meant he didn't feel totally useless – at least for the moment, it left Tony feeling lost and alone.

"..be_cause_..." she picked up her last statement where Gibbs' call had interrupted it. "You should _be_ with them, Tony; they all know it, _we_ all know it – and you know it too, but you haven't had a chance to know it as long as we have." She took a breath and gently touched his chest, over his heart. "Gibbs and Timmy were on their own for a while, and it was so hard, every day, when they were so worried about you and Ziva. Then Ziva came back, desk only for a while, and they all had that _and_ you to figure out. Then Ziva got back in the field with them – and Tim admitted once that it was almost hardest then, when it was most noticeable that the only thing that wasn't right again was that you weren't with them..."

As her words tumbled, Abby wondered if anyone had told Tony this, how much he had meant not just to each of them, as a friend and co-worker, but as an irreplaceable member of the team. "It wasn't like losing Kate, when we _knew_ she was gone, and saw her laid to rest. It wasn't like Ziva, who was hurt and gone for a while – or when you had the plague – when we knew time would get you back." Abby watched Tony's face as he took in her words. "But even with all that ... they still had a job to do, and had to get back on top of things, and McGee had to become senior field agent, and they would never stop going to visit you or missing your being with them ... but they had to keep going. And then, when you woke up, and started getting better and went to rehab, it wasn't as good as having you back on the team, but having you back after so long was so much more important, that it almost didn't matter anymore."

She took a breath, and stepped even closer, her voice dropping a little more. "Tony, you've had only a handful of weeks to get used to not seeing, and another handful of weeks to get your muscles back and get some training ... and only two and a half days to be back here and _not_ get called out with them. Even after months the others still felt it, felt like things weren't right." She paused again. "Not even three whole days yet. _That's_ why."

Tony stood unmoving for the moment, clearly letting her words register, as he imagined what it would have been like ... imagining his teammates actually missing him, despite all the teasing and pestering and joking he did, maybe even understanding why he'd felt compelled to act that way. He felt himself relax a little more, comforted with Abby's assurances that his reaction was okay, and even made sense.

He finally shrugged, and this time his smile, though much smaller than before, was genuine. "They're _fine_," he agreed. "And," he went on, more of the old Tony coming through, "since I got stood up for lunch and have at least 50 minutes left – can I help?"

Abby grinned and threw herself at him again in a sudden hug, which she dropped just as suddenly to spin back to her work. "Well, you can talk the 'who' and 'where' that Gibbs wants to know with me," she tried.

"Okay." He leaned casually against her work table, back against its edge, ankles crossed and arms folded. "Read me in."

And Abby began chattering away as she quick-clomped between Major Mass Spec and the table, between the samples on the table and her keyboard, and between the small box of additional evidence waiting for her and her microscope, feeling more 'normal' than she had in a year. She knew things would never be the same, but Tony, _her_ Tony, the _real_ Tony, was back in her lab, throwing out ideas and suggestions, sounding just as he had a year ago, and after a silence of nearly that long. And if she closed her eyes really tight – just for a moment – it was as if nothing had changed at all...


	9. Tony & McGee

**_Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed; the original story and scenario from "Believe Again" by Montana-Rosalie, FFN story ID #5047152 ._**

_**A/N:** Continuing thanks to M-R for the original idea and permission to beat it to death. Continuing from the POV of individual characters to Tony's injury, this is the second installment of "duets" between Tony with another character, as he moves past his physical recovery and on back into life. _

**CHRONOLOGY WARNING:** As explained previously, installments are not in the AU's chronological order. This one can actually be the last, chronologically, or could occur before Vance's installment, which falls six months after Tony's return to NCIS post-injury. Otherwise, in order that occurred, Ziva/Ch. 1 runs the full time line; the others run in order: Ducky/Ch. 5, Abby/Ch. 3, McGee/Ch. 4, Tony/ Ch.6, Gibbs/Ch. 2, Tony & Abby/Ch.8, to Vance/Ch. 7.

**_As always, thanks for reading, alerting, favoriting and (admittedly the most day-making) your comments and reviews. Whatever you have to say, I'm interested!_**

**BELIEVING STILL**

From complete unconsciousness – or so he thought – McGee was suddenly aware of a dull, throbbing ache, first just below his knee, then snaking up along his thigh until his entire left leg reminded him of where he was and why. He grimaced, eyes still closed, the frustration of the case growing sharp again as his memory worked past the sedation and pain killers. _Bad lead, bad circumstances; off the clock and no reason to worry about things going haywire... _

From somewhere at his right, he heard a slight shift and a snap, and Tim was aware that, where the room was now quiet, moments before there had been the soft, clicking sounds of a laptop keyboard. "Sleeping beauty sounds like he's coming around."

_That_ surprised him. He fought to open his bleary eyes as he turned to look at his former partner. "Tony?"

"Ah – oriented to time and person. Unless you're saying _you're_ Tony, which would mean we have a problem."

Tim grunted softly to himself as he rolled his head back to center on the pillow and closed his eyes.

He could hear the grin in DiNozzo's voice as it spoke again. "Answers that one – oriented." McGee could also hear the worry there, a sound he'd learned over the years when Tony had tried to joke or minimize bad situations – that sound underneath the bluster of a perceptive, concerned friend and colleague. "So if you need another round of meds or a drink or something, I have an 'in' with tonight's shift; Jennifer and Stacy and Dennis are on duty tonight, and they all said..."

"_Dennis_?"

"Well, yeah, McGee; you some kind of sexist that you don't like male nurses? Because Dennis could probably make your life miserable if he knew..."

McGee pried his eyes open again and looked back at his friend, who not all _that_ long ago had announced to a rather doting staff nurse, on his own transfer from a long term care floor to the rehab department across campus, "no offense, Annie, but the only way anyone will get me back into a hospital _ever_ is with a toe-tag – and that's not likely because I plan to have 'just take me to Ducky' tattooed on my backside." Tim saw the concern etched across DiNozzo's features, and was touched that Tony had been willing to break that very sincere vow just to come see him. "What time is it?"

"About 8," Tony said without checking, and his voice softened a little in his concern. "You conscious enough yet to know how you're doing?"

"Yeah – about the same. The same things hurt that did before."

DiNozzo smiled a little. "That's a good sign." He seemed to listen for another moment, assessing Tim's status, before he added, "you know, I think that all those years I was senior field agent I gave you plenty to emulate – how to investigate, how to interview – how to manage Gibbs – but I didn't think I would have to spell out for you that being senior field agent does _not_ have to mean becoming a 'preferred customer' at Bethesda. What is this, third time this year?"

McGee protested, "that last time was just because Ducky said..."

DiNozzo nodded, smirking, "yeah, you didn't pick up that lesson either, how to evade Ducky's directives."

"Well this one shouldn't count. We were off duty, and I was headed out for the weekend."

"Senior Field Agent Rule number 2, Probie – there is never 'off duty' for senior field agents as far as the bad guys are concerned. You know, you now may be looking at a list of your own, all those people who want you dead." DiNozzo suddenly grinned widely. "I guess that means I'm one hell of a role model."

Even in the circumstances, even with the dark thread of reality in Tony's words, Tim found himself shaking his head – and smirking a little – at the always irrepressible, vain, self-congratulatory banter Tony could manage out of almost any situation. The familiarity and inanity of it made him feel a little more relaxed and – safe. _He really **does** have a lot to teach me about being a senior field agent – and about being there for the team_, McGee found himself musing sleepily.

The thought led him to replay the past twenty four hours or so since they'd found him, his mind suddenly more alert with the implication – he vaguely remembered Ziva arriving at the cold, icy roadside shortly after the state troopers found him, her riding in at his side in the ambulance, and Gibbs meeting them at the hospital, the worried whispers about bullet holes and tire damage that wasn't a result of wear. Time crunched shortly after that, with surgery and the fuzzy hours of post-op lost to him, but he did remember Gibbs being there just after he woke up the first time, and remembered that not too long ago, Abby and Ducky were around when they brought him to a regular room. Or ... that's what he thought he remembered...

It occurred to him that he wasn't all that sure what he actually remembered, and what he filled in from experience. He'd been involved in a handful of similar hospital 'shifts' on the other side of the equation – as a visitor, not as patient – and probably filled in what he knew would have happened if it had been one of the others. The team always rallied around the downed teammate, more insistent and tireless than any biological family would be – and clearly better armed. He still remembered, too vividly, the gut-wrenching vigils they'd had with Gibbs' coma, with Ziva and Tony's explosion, the one that took Tony from the team and from his position as field agent. Now it was his turn in the bed, and in an odd way, the fact that they all came to be with him as they had for the others suddenly made him feel more accepted and a part of the team than many other things had. Especially because they had an agent posted at the door, and because Tony wasn't assigned to the team anymore, Tony's being there with him – not assigned to be, or to hurry the team back to being on one piece, but because he was a friend and _wanted_ to be – gave him a sense of belonging that confirmed what he hoped he'd sensed in the last few years at NCIS. _From DiNozzo, no less_, he marveled, remembering how miserable he'd been during those first couple years.

Swallowing the emotion the realization had suddenly brought, McGee remembered what the patient usually did in these circumstances and tried to do the same thing. "You know ... if you're here to play role model again, I'm probably not alert enough yet to learn anything." Tony would understand that was his way of telling him to go home – wouldn't he? "Is that why you're not home harassing Ziva?" _Just in case he didn't..._ McGee told himself.

"That just shows how much you have to learn, little Probie. I think you'll have to admit that if anyone around here has some mad hospital skills, it's me. _Months_ in the making."

"You were in a coma for most of those months!"

"I was _undercover_..." Tony grinned suddenly, the idea clearly just popping up now, and one that pleased him immensely. "Gathering intel."

Rolling his eyes as he snorted at the thought, Tim sighed wearily, feeling the pull of sleep even over the pain in his leg. "They'll probably kick you out pretty soon anyway," Tim tried with less certainty. Truth was, he didn't really _want_ Tony to leave.

"Not here. Believe me, I have some serious love in this place, all the interns and medical students they've paraded in to see me, both times I was here for a while, after looking at my chart – I think they may actually have named a wing after me by now. If they try to kick me out, all I have to do is point them to the MRIs and x-rays they have here of my lungs and my head..."

"Your head, for sure..." Tim muttered, unable – again – to stop the grin as he rose to the bait. _Tony being Tony ... who would ever have thought it could be such a stabilizing, comforting feeling..._

"And anyway..." Tony's voice softened a little, "I heard they'll have you here for at least another few days and I owed you..."

_At least another few days_ was the _very_ least, Tim swallowed at the reminder, because that would mean that they'd gotten to him in time and would be able to save his foot and leg. At least the last time he was alert enough to catch the doctor's words, he had about a fifty-fifty shot at it. "Anyone say anything about that yet, about the surgery?" he asked, the thought enough to rouse him to again open his eyes and look at his former partner.

He saw Tony's expression morph into his most sincere, honest one. "I didn't hear anything official, and I talked to Gibbs when I got here – he didn't have any news either. But," he smiled softly, "I _have_ been here when Nurse Stacy and even Nurse Dennis came in to check things, and they were making those little nurse noises – you know, the hmmphs and all – and they were happy, perky little grunts, not the worried kind." He shrugged. "I think they think you're doing okay." He paused a moment, then added, "but if you want me to check – or to call someone in to ask..."

McGee surprised himself by saying, "nah. Maybe later." Although he knew that any news he got now wouldn't change the outcome, he would normally want to know everything, immediately. He also knew that even if Tony believed that the nurses were making positive little sounds, it might not mean anything.

_Still._ In his room, at his bedside, was his former senior field agent who was bashed and battered frequently in his years on the team, but more importantly, had survived a deadly medieval disease and a usually fatal head injury. DiNozzo was actually right; they _should_ name a wing after him. And having him here, Tim almost felt as if Tony's stubborn luck and titanium constitution could rub off on him – maybe he should start by believing in "those little nurse noises" the way Tony did.

Tim looked back at DiNozzo as the second part of his statement registered. "Why do you owe me?"

Tony snorted. "Well, gas money, among other things?"

McGee thought for a moment then made the probable connection. "Oh – visiting?" The months of Tony in a coma, the weeks after he awoke and more after he transferred to the rehab facility... yeah, they all had been out to see Tony after his most recent injury. But it hadn't ever been about adding up a score...

"More like moving in with me," Tony's eyebrow lifted wryly. "We'll hope you don't make this a habit, so I'll just pay back now. Since you _will_ have a few days this trip, and since thanks to you I have the portable hospital entertainment center..."

Tim's eyes followed as, with his words, Tony reached over to pat the top of the familiar looking disc player he'd installed in Tony's room, while he was still in a coma. "I brought a selection of movies, but you know I've got the largest personal collection of anyone on the Eastern Seaboard at home," he exaggerated. "So if you have a movie you want to see, let me know and I either have it or will get a copy and expand my collection."

Tim grinned tiredly, touched by Tony's act. Feeling another level of relaxation take him over, despite the pain in his leg and the vaguely insistent fear that the surgery wouldn't have come soon enough to save it, he asked, "what did you bring?'

"Quite an eclectic mix, although all with the nerdy geek in mind – or is it geeky nerd?" Tony beamed as his enthusiasm for this private movie festival – and its medicinal qualities, of which he was certain – took him over. "We've got '2001,' 'Wargames,' 'The Day the Earth Stood Still...' – the _original_, not that last thing..."

"_Klaatu ... barada ... nikto..."_ Tim murmured sleepily.

"ExACTly," Tony crowed, then his grin softened again, slightly – knowingly. "Why don't I put something on ... I've got some guy stuff, too – Three Stooges, Wyle E. Coyote..."

"You pick." Tim murmured as he nestled against the pillows. He noticed that the pain in his leg, while constant, wasn't as bad as it had been originally, and he figured the self-dosing machine must have given him another round of morphine or whatever big-league pain killers they were giving him. _Yeah, that was probably it..._

"Well, let's see. Evening fare? I guess it would have to be 'It Came from Outer Space.' Classic!" Tony reached for the stack of CDs on the bedside tray next to the DVD player and, after skimming his finger quickly along the cases' edges, now each embossed with a thin strip of Braille markings, pulled one from the stack. "1953; often copied, never matched. Directed by Jack Arnold, the genius of the genre. Probie, he directed 'The Creature from the Black Lagoon,' The Incredible Shrinking Man' ... a true master."

Tony's prattling of movie stats raised another sleepy grin from McGee as the movie was loaded up and started. He really didn't catch much of the movie; other than a very soft, "okay, Probie, this is the really important part" and what he thought was a resumption, not too long after, of the soft clatter of a laptop keyboard, McGee was soon oblivious to the movie ... his injuries ... the pain. His senior field agent had taken charge again and had his six, so he could rest and get better. His sleep was deep and, finally, more restful than it had been since he'd gotten there.

After all ... who else on the team had the experience and dumb luck at all this that Dinozzo did?


	10. Tony & Palmer

_**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed from TPTB; the original AU in these chapters was built from the one created by Montana-Rosalie in "Believe Again," FFN story ID #5047152 . **__Thanks once more to Montana-Rosalie for her permission to use it as a starting place for these scenes. This is the third duet between Tony and another in the NCIS world as he returns to the Navy Yard and a new job. _

**CHRONOLOGY WARNING:** Chapters are _still_ not in chronological order. If you like your stories in timeline sequence, I suggest Ziva/Ch. 1 as an overall intro, then Ducky/Ch. 5, Abby/Ch. 3, McGee/Ch. 4, Tony/ Ch.6, Gibbs/Ch. 2, Tony & Abby/Ch.8, this chapter/Tony & Palmer/Ch. 10, Vance/Ch. 7, and Tony & McGee/Ch.9.

_Your favoriting and alerts, and especially your reviews, are __**always**__ appreciated. Let me know what you think!_

**Believing Still**

It was Week two, Day two after his return to work, and as he had every morning since his return, Tony was on his way to see Ducky. He would continue to see him each day for another couple weeks, so his stable of physicians could have a daily report of his vital signs and his mental acuity. It hadn't been required by the job or even for his health, but Tony figured owed them. Besides, it gave him a reason to stop in to see the garrulous doctor each morning as he psyched himself up to ease back into work, _not_ in the field, when his schedule didn't otherwise include a good reason to see Gibbs or the team, or Abby and her babies, during the day. The chance to stop in and see Ducky each morning had made his return a little easier, the Scotsman's rambling stories a warm comfort after so long without them.

But this morning he and Ziva had come in later than usual, and he headed downstairs closer to 8:00 than his usual 7:00 a.m. When he got off the elevator and headed toward autopsy, hearing the doors _swish_ open for him, he hoped he wasn't so late that he'd interrupt the doctor mid-autopsy.

He stepped inside and cocked an ear for the sound of movement, not hearing Ducky's cheery greeting immediately on arrival. What he did hear was a small movement, so small that it might have been his imagination, but he discounted that as soon as the possibility crossed his mind. "Ducky?" he called.

Another movement, more skittery this time, was followed by a stammer and a cleared throat. "Uh – ah – no, Tony; i...it's Jimmy. Palmer. Jimmy Palmer. Dr. Mallard isn't here; the Director called him upstairs to MTAC for a consult..."

"Oh. Okay." Tony nodded, the sudden face to face with Palmer unexpected and awkward. He supposed he should be glad that only one of his former colleagues seemed to be so awkward around him, no doubt uncomfortable around him as he was now, but it still nettled Tony that of anyone he'd known, it was the medical student, the guy who rooted around in dead bodies as gleefully as Ducky did, who was too freaked out by his injury and resulting blindness to even call, once he'd awakened, or to visit or stop by in his new department.

Tony sighed. He'd heard often enough in rehab from the staff and from others in the program about those "out there" who would be different, faced with a friend now blind, but he wouldn't have thought it would be Palmer. Palmer, almost a doctor now, and a surprisingly good and faithful wingman when he had needed someone he could trust, outside the team, when it meant letting his insecurities or indecision show. It had disappointed DiNozzo more than he let show when Ziva confessed that on the couple occasions when he came into the Navy Yard to visit, before starting back to work, and others had come up to talk or welcome him back, Palmer had run the other way, making himself scarce until the chance of running into Tony was well past.

But he just tipped his head in thanks and offered the man a small smile before retreating. "I'll just stop back later, then." As he turned to go, Tony heard a little squeak from Palmer that developed into a cough, then a voice, though a little higher pitched than usual.

"Was there something ... I mean, is there ... can I help with anything?"

Tony stopped, weighing his options. He knew Palmer could take the readings he needed; if he could find the file Ducky had kept on him Jimmy could even read off the pre-written "cognition" test they had him run every morning to check his mental dexterity. Ducky never seemed to mind doing the five minute check-up, but it was a bit of an imposition, and Tony knew it might be a way to force things past this awkwardness with Palmer. So he nodded. "Yeah, if you don't mind. Dr. Pitt and Dr. Rosolov have me under orders to report to Ducky for a daily BP, temp, pulse and brain function check. If you could at least get the basics it would save Ducky from having to do them later."

"Okaaay," Palmer drawled out a little, clearly puzzled with the order, but moving efficiently to gather what he needed. "Are they ... looking for something specific?" he asked, apparently fishing for clues about the odd orders.

Tony smirked a little at the reason as he explained, "not exactly. It's just getting a – well, what's the opposite of a baseline? The two of them are torturing me, figuring I owe each of them for keeping me alive, some nonsense like that." He began embellishing the story, hoping Palmer might laugh a little, too. "Between the plague and the bashing in of my skull, they've decided I'd make a _great_ paper, so they've submitted me to some sort of colloquium and are going to present the Tony DiNozzo medical round-up at some big conference next month. This is all just statistical post-injury data, so they can prove how they restored me to perfect health, and have even got back to working at a federal agency for taxpayers' dollars. I figure as long as they didn't have to cut or drill into me, it wasn't so bad. I drew the line at daily MRIs, though."

"Ohhh." Palmer was otherwise silent for several moments, so rooted in place, Tony surmised, as he chewed on the information. "But ... you said something about Dr. Mallard doing a ... a brain function check, too?" Jimmy moved again, so DiNozzo took a seat on the examination table, the drill well ingrained, and the gremlin added in a rushed murmur, "your ... ah ... your sleeve, if you'll ..."

Tony unbuttoned his cuff and rolled up his shirt sleeve as he spoke. "The brain function thing is just a quick set of questions – a couple math problems, some word relationships, that kind of thing, for language processing, and a couple short term memory questions. They have a daily list they developed for him; it's in a file he keeps in his office somewhere."

"Ah. Well, that would be interesting – maybe I should find out when they're presenting, and see about going. Would be kinda odd, knowing it was you they were talking about."

As Tony waited for the cuff to be fastened around his bicep, Palmer's nervousness was palpable, in the small quaver of his voice, his too ready, higher than usual laugh, his slightly fumbling hands, his stammering request to put the thermometer under his tongue. Well, what else had they said in rehab, that it might fall to him to make others comfortable with the way things were now? It wasn't like Jimmy was ever all that socially graceful. As he waited for the cuff to be fastened around his bicep, Tony drew a breath, hoping he didn't sound forced, and spoke around the thermometer in his mouth, "so how've you been, Jimmy?"

The movements at his arm froze for the barest moment, then resumed, Palmer's voice sounding almost cautious. "Fine – fine. You?" The movement froze again, and Tony was certain it was because he'd suddenly reconsidered his knee-jerk response. "I m...mean... other than... you know." A little faster in his nervousness than he intended, Jimmy jerked the thermometer out of Tony's mouth, surprising the "patient" a little.

DiNozzo didn't know if he should laugh or sigh at Palmer's awkwardness around him, so managed to keep it to a soft smile. "I'm good. Great, actually. I'm all for sleeping in on the weekend, but four months? It was a bit much, even for me." There had to be some way to get Palmer to relax. "I get that you might not have taken the bashing on the head class yet ... but I'm not contagious, you know. And _I_ know that I'm not quite back to where I was before I got creamed with a motor, so it's okay to mention it, if you want, Jimmy. And I won't bite. So ... no need to run the other way, okay?"

Palmer actually gasped a little, clearly stunned, but whether it was because Tony knew he'd been hiding from him, or just from his bluntness, it was hard to tell. The man's hands were ice cold, somehow fitting for an autopsy gremlin, but not how Tony wanted his friend to feel with it all. He sighed, trying to back up a little.

"Look – it's old news now, and things are getting back to normal. I just ..."

"No, Tony, you're right – and I owe you an apology for not coming to see you. It was pretty low."

Tony shrugged, and waved it off. "Nothin' much to see. As long as we're good now, though, right?" There was a long pause and Tony tried again, "right?"

"Yeah, I..." This time Palmer's voice was softer, less tense – but filled with regret. "I should have come, to the hospital, or to see you at the rehab center, but ... I couldn't. I hadn't ever faced that before, seeing someone I knew being treated for such devastating injuries. I ... I mean ... I know I was _around_, when you got the plague, but I wasn't ..." He fumbled with the words, looking for a way to explain his lapse. "And that was really the worst any of you have been sidelined, except of course Agent Gibbs and _his_ coma, but his wasn't too long, and once he came back..."

"All his bodily parts were intact?" Tony tried making light of things, hoping a bit of humor in his voice would help.

At that, Palmer's eyes darted quickly and guiltily to Tony's, then down again as their obvious lack of connection simply underscored this awkwardness. But then he looked up again and saw, in the studied, neutral expression Tony carefully maintained, just who he'd let down – and how badly – when he of all people there, as a medical student, should be able to consider all the ripples a stone in Tony's pond would create.

And in that moment he felt a sudden strength, remembering what it had meant to him, being DiNozzo's confidante, even if it was a Hobson's choice and he'd simply been the only "outsider" handy that first time Tony needed an ear. The fact that Tony kept coming back meant he'd been a help – a _friend_ – when DiNozzo needed it. And he might have really sucked here lately at being a friend, but he was darn sure he'd make up for it now.

"Well, yes," he straightened, and drew a breath to begin slowly, "but he wasn't someone I really knew well, so it wasn't the same." Jimmy watched Tony closely as he found his words and came out from behind the examination table he'd been unconsciously using as a shield between them. "Tony, I owe you an apology for my – absence – since you were injured, both from visiting, and ... from being there, when you might have liked an ear from someone not on the team. I let you down."

It clearly wasn't what DiNozzo expected; he blinked a little in surprise, the words throwing off any glib words he had ready. In a moment, though, his expression was neutral, schooled, and it matched his shrug of casual indifference. "Hey, no biggie; it wasn't like I was doing much that needed back-up..."

"But I didn't know that. I should have been out there; maybe if I'd been around I could have been some help with something – even if only to bring some Jamaican Blue Mountain. I'm pretty sure they wouldn't have that at the hospital. But the point is," he rushed on, both to avoid any awkward silences and to keep himself from losing his nerve, "you're a friend, Tony, and I should have at least called or come seen you."

Tony again went for a shrug, and shook his head as he opened his mouth to speak – but he hesitated, words again failing him, and he closed it, without comment. That alone let Palmer know that his failure to be there for his friend, no matter who _had_ been there for Tony, had been hurtful.

"But ... if you'll let me ... maybe I can make it up to you. At least get that coffee for a bull session, like we used to do."

Tony half smirked, nodding quietly, and offered, "yeah, maybe." He paused a moment, something else clearly on his mind, but finally spoke. "Look, Palmer, if it makes you uncomfortable ... if _I_ make you uncomfortable, you can take a pass. It's okay."

"No, Tony, it's _not_." Jimmy said immediately, then amended, "and it's not that _you_ make me uncomfortable. But it _was_ different because it was you. See, all this time, even with all the bodies here and all the labs and the rounds we have to attend..." He'd gotten to the heart of things so slowed down, hoping Tony could really understand. "I've never had to see a _friend_ hurt as badly as you were – as you _are_. I've never had to autopsy a friend or co-worker and more than anything I'm glad I didn't have to even consider that with you – or with anyone. But I've never had a friend lose his sight or hearing or some other ability, either ... and ... I didn't know how to react to it."

He found he'd been staring at the floor, as if the words he needed might be there, but now he looked up and searched Tony's face for some sign that he'd made himself clear. "I'm training to be a doctor, and what that means here, when I'm with Dr. Mallard, is that I'm working on someone who's already past saving to help find out what took their life. But outside of work here, I'm supposed to find ways to heal all the injuries and insults people take, everyday. Logically I know not everything can be fixed – if it could, Dr. Mallard would be out of a job." He sorted softly at his little joke, then realized it was yet another of his inappropriate stabs at humor and glanced guiltily at DiNozzo. Seeing Tony listening patiently, apparently willing to accept his apology, Palmer relaxed a little more as he realized how important it was that his friend understand. "But this time ... Tony, you're a _friend_ – maybe the best one I have here at NCIS – and seeing you that first time on a ventilator, with all the swelling and battering you took – and then the couple times I came out later, seeing some of the wasting effects of the coma..." Jimmy shook his head as the images played back in his thoughts. "It was _way_ different, accepting the medical realities when it involved a friend. And then when you beat the odds..." He watched for a reaction, wondering if Tony really _could_ understand. "I was – afraid, I guess, to come see you after you woke up, to talk to you, knowing that nearly everything was on its way back to normal for you with one, glaring exception, and that somehow you couldn't be the same again, and with all the medical miracles they have these days and no matter the fact that you're a medical miracle yourself, having survived at all – I felt as if _I_ was letting you down, when the medical science I was studying had nothing else to offer you. And I know it just makes matters worse, but I still just couldn't find a way to face you. And that's ..." He shook his head. "It's unforgivable."

DiNozzo had listened silently, his expression thoughtful as he heard Palmer's confession. No matter how it might have made him feel, apparently Palmer had been feeling even worse, when he shouldn't have. At Jimmy's final words he shifted almost uncomfortably to murmur, "no, look, it's just the weirdness of it all. I wasn't supposed to get whacked by a flying car engine and then wasn't supposed to wake up ... you're not the only one who's feeling a little awkward around me now..."

"But I'm the only one who's close to you who is ... and the only one with medical training other than Dr. Mallard. I should be one of the first to just take it all in stride."

"Jimmy, it wouldn't be you if the first time didn't have an effect." DiNozzo tipped his head and showed him a prototypical DiNozzo leer, meant to lighten the mood and, Jimmy knew, offer forgiveness for his transgression. "I'm honored to be your first."

Palmer saw no course of action other than to grin and nod, just what Tony wanted him to do. "Thanks, Tony," he breathed, as relieved as DiNozzo that the awkwardness had passed. "And ... your BP's 125/75 – a little high for you? Maybe you should have Dr. Mallard take it. I suspect I may have added a couple points with what I was saying..."

Tony grinned widely, knowing the answer before he asked. "Enough to throw off their study about what a great job they did on me? That would be fun, skew their study..."

"No, you're still at a very healthy level, but ... it's probably an outside effect and not a fair measure of your blood pressure."

"It's not like they're putting any other conditions on how it's taken. What about the temp? Normal?"

"98.7"

"Well, we DiNozzos are a little hot-blooded."

"A very little." Jimmy finally relaxed enough to smirk back at him. "Let me get your pulse and ... want me to try to find the questions?"

As the still-cool fingers wrapped surely around his wrist, Tony shrugged. "Up to you. I can come back, though."

Jimmy was silent for just another moment as he finished counting a few second more, then said, "well, it may not be as good as a list of questions, but from our conversation I think your mental acuity is what it always was. Maybe even better."

Tony's eyebrow went up as he slowly slid off the exam table and tried, "a good whack on the head to loosen up the parts that were stuck?"

"Maybe something like that."

DiNozzo nodded, seeming himself to be more comfortable with the air cleared between them. "Thanks, Palmer. I'll give Ducky a call later."

"You take coffee breaks from that job up in analysis now? I still have a inside source for that Jamaican Blue Mountain."

This time Tony's smile was just as wide, but warmer, and definitely pleased. "I suspect they can get along with me for a few minutes once in a while. Think Ducky will let you sneak off?"

"I think he'd approve. If you want to meet up later today I can bring those questions."

"Sold." Tony started to turn toward the exit doors, but hesitated, and turned back to the medical assistant with another, softer smile. "Thanks for telling me, Palmer." He then grinned wider and, typical DiNozzo, had to find a joke in there too. "It makes a big difference to know it was your hang up and not just me."

"How could you ever assume otherwise?" Jimmy teased back.

"True." Tony's grin spread even wider, hearing that Palmer would truly be okay with things now. He started off toward the doors, calling back over his shoulder when they swished open for him, "Gimme a call when you want to do that brain check."

"I will." Jimmy watched his friend head out to the elevator, and felt himself relax even further, a big, goofy smile on his face. He used to wonder at the fact that a guy like Tony DiNozzo would ever have come to him for advice and friendship. Growing up, guys like Tony were more likely to make fun of geeks and do everything they could to avoid the appearance of a connection with someone uncool – until they wanted help for their math or chem final. But Tony had just confirmed for him what he'd long suspected – that he wasn't one of _those_ guys, no matter how hard he worked to make others think that of him. His job, his unfailing loyalty to those in this building – even his return to work – said more about the real DiNozzo than anything.

At the thought, Palmer darted over to the small desk at the end of the autopsy suite and jotted Dr. Mallard a note, in case he returned before Palmer did. He wrote that Tony stopped by, listed his vitals – and ended that he'd be back in fifteen minutes. He wanted to go get some of those Jamaican Blue Mountain beans, so he'd be able to make a fresh brew for this afternoon's coffee break...


	11. Tony & Gibbs

_A/N: This story is not marked as complete, because there are plenty more potential installments in this universe – but when this little scene appeared, it seemed fitting for the last entry in this chronology, and it wouldn't leave me alone until it was written. Since I have been posting the chapters in this AU out of chronological order all along, I guess this makes as much sense as anything, but here's the final scene ... for now._

_Once again, thanks to Montana-Rosalie for the original story. Are you still out there, hun?_

**CHRONOLOGY WARNING:** as previously announced, the chapters do not run in sequence. If you prefer reading in the order that events occurred, Ziva's (Ch. 1) runs across most of the time represented; the rest, chronologically with events, start with Ducky (Ch. 5), then Abby (Ch. 3), McGee, (Ch. 4), Tony (Ch. 6), Gibbs (Ch. 2), Tony and Abby (Ch.8), Tony and Palmer, (Ch. 10), Vance (Ch. 7), Tony and McGee (Ch. 9) and finally this new one, Tony and Gibbs, (Ch. 11).

_Many thanks for reading (even with the weird posting order). Reviews and comments always appreciated! _

**Believing Still**

Another quiet Saturday afternoon – so far. The team was off rotation, and Gibbs was in his basement. It had been a good week; they'd been called out on Tuesday morning to investigate a death that, for once, revealed no foul play, but simply an unfortunate mix of genetics and unhealthy living, and then called on Wednesday afternoon to interview an office full of potential embezzlers, with Ziva quickly getting to the heart of the issue in her interview with the civilian support employee who was foundering in back-due child support.

Nothing too exciting – nothing that would support another one of McGee's books, Gibbs smirked to himself — but a quiet week was fine with him. A quiet week meant another week when his agents could go home to a hot meal and a warm bed, when they could relax and recharge for the next bad one. However, it also left him more time than he usually liked to let his thoughts wander, and now, almost inevitable given the changes so near on the horizon, he found himself remembering his agents from over the years, his teams ... his wars ... his choices. The agents – and friends – he'd lost, and those who had survived, still whispered to him in the quiet basement, more often than anyone knew. Nothing lasted forever, and even though the math, overall, had ended up with more wins than losses for him, he felt the sting of the absence of those he'd lost in the line.

It was almost 4 PM when Gibbs heard the soft, familiar sound of his porch creaking as it was crossed, and he listened for the door. He'd known he'd have company today, just not when, and with a mental head slap he put his memories back in their dusty corner and got back to his planing, taking long, luxurious strokes against the beautiful rich grain under his hands. Especially today, Gibbs wanted to be the man that his agents believed and expected him to be, the solid, steady presence in everyone's lives he knew they'd relied on, over the years, to make command decisions and follow them though. It wasn't always as easy as they thought it was for him, but overall he was stubborn enough to make up his mind and act, and he'd had good men and women behind him who, on occasion, were willing to tell him when they thought he was off base. His six was still covered, although not by the person he'd hoped would be there when the time came to hand off his team.

As the door opened he listened, surprised to hear the that the familiar, solid tread overhead wasn't followed by other feet joining the first pair, and, in spite of himself and the mixed feelings he had about this particular decision and the changes ahead, he felt his mouth quirk up at the corner. _Leave it to this bunch to make things more complicated than they needed to be._

The sounds came to him – steps across his kitchen floor, the tiny squeak of his basement door hinges opening the door wider, the soft wooden creak of footsteps on the stair treads – and Gibbs again appreciated how much he loved this house, its voice, and how safe and comfortable he felt here, its familiarity like having another partner at his back. _Like a living thing_, he mused, _full of memories and assurances._ His grin settled across his face with the nearing footfalls.

"You lost, DiNozzo?"

"Hey, Boss." This was another familiar, comfortable scenario that had shifted and rearranged itself, over the years, and as he often had over the last half-decade, his former SFA came down half way and sat, no longer asking if he was busy or this was a bad time, knowing that the response was nearly always 'no' to both and if it wasn't, Gibbs would still hear him out before rushing him off. He waited for Tony to speak again, and noted that, unlike most of their conversations these past few years, the younger man remained quiet, hesitating several moments before speaking again. Given the circumstances, though, Gibbs wasn't surprised, and suspected he knew what brought DiNozzo this time – and found himself once again touched by the man he'd all but adopted out of Baltimore, like a stray from the pound. He'd long ago realized he'd ended up with a purebred when he did.

"So, you ready for next week?" DiNozzo finally began.

Gibbs half snorted, softly. "Yeah, are you?"

"Yeah, but ... I just have to move my stuff from one desk to another, one floor up. Yours is farther."

"Just across town."

"Yeah, but what are you gonna do without your office, Boss? I'm pretty sure Vance isn't gonna let you take it with you," DiNozzo joked. "Budget's a little too tight to have to replace an elevator that, against all odds, is still actually working."

"Well, I'm counting on you to make it happen, DiNozzo. And about _that_," even trying to sound gruff, Gibbs knew he couldn't keep the bit of pride from his voice, "shouldn't I be calling _you_ 'Boss?'"

"Nah – too weird," Tony laughed awkwardly, and as he paused again, Gibbs knew he'd found at least some of what was bothering the younger man – hell, he should have recognized it, since it was working on him some, too. But in another moment DiNozzo half-laughed again and said, "it's probably about the last thing either of us ever figured, right? I mean ... given everything ..." At Gibbs' grunt, wholly expected and comforting in its familiarity, Tony went on, "I'm not gonna say that you couldn't get yourself in some tight spots at FLETC, too, but not the kind I worry about when I'm not there to get your six anymore." Another pause, and Tony finally added, "I gotta admit, after you came back from retirement I figured that you'd be on the job until one of the bad guys got lucky, given your tendency to put yourself out there."

"_My_ tendency?" Gibbs griped, affectionately. "Ya want to compare how many concussions we've each had on the job? Or broken noses?"

"Okay, so maybe I have a unique perspective, having put myself out there just a bit too far." Relaxing a little once the conversation was begun, Tony stood again to come down the last ten steps into the basement, turning then to cross the floor toward his mentor. Now habit, Gibbs provided a verbal cue to his surroundings.

"Stool four feet ahead, to your left." As he spoke, Gibbs put down the plane and went to his work bench, once again tossing bolts and screws on its surface to blow out the small glass jars and pour them each a couple fingers of bourbon. Tony came closer and rested his knuckles on the stool's smooth wooden surface, drumming them there quietly, but remained standing. As Gibbs came back toward him and grunted something that sounded like, "here," Tony raised his hand to feel the familiar pattern of a quilted glass jar pressed into his grip.

"Thanks," he murmured, and added softly, "And from my 'unique perspective' – I'm still glad your reflexes are better than mine." He paused to sip the bourbon, then chuckled softly, "you know, I think I've actually started liking this stuff." Tony was quiet for another few moments before he spoke again, getting to the heart of what brought him there. "You really _want_ this, Boss?"

Jethro glanced up to the concerned face of a friend, still the best second – and probably the best _partner_ – he'd ever had, and knew exactly what he was asking. Ten years ago, even five, he'd never seen himself voluntarily leaving field duty again. But things change, and he found that he might have more to offer elsewhere – and more to live for. "My knees do," he laughed.

Tony snorted and rolled his eyes. "And that's all it took? Bullshit; if that was all you'd have stayed in Mexico. Your knees were always crap."

"Yeah, well, crap is relative." Gibbs saw the sincere concern in DiNozzo's eyes and relented – of all times, he really did owe Tony something. "You're right, Tony – this isn't what I had planned. I screwed up when I left for Mexico, and when I came back, I figured I'd stay for maybe another five years, enough time to be there for you, anything you needed to fill in any blanks you wanted filled before you took over the team on _your_ terms, not on mine. And when that didn't work out..."

"Yeah, that whole 'getting whacked by a flying engine' thing again," Tony nodded sagely, once again conjuring a life-changing injury into a mere pratfall. Even now, he trumped serious mention of the explosion with a minimizing joke. Once when Gibbs vented to Ducky about DiNozzo's refusal to let such a reference just go by, the wise doctor said it was Tony's way of maintaining some level of control over it – and immediately, Gibbs _got_ it. He never begrudged DiNozzo's lame-ass jokes about it again.

"... I adjusted the timeline," Gibbs continued smoothly. "I wasn't sure who I could leave the team with, if it wasn't you." Gibbs knew that Tony had to know this already, deep down, but he realized that he owed the younger man enough that the words needed to be spoken. "I'm still not as sure as I would've been had it been you – but given that you'll be running the whole damn division, I suppose it's the next best thing."

Not surprisingly, Tony smiled at that, still pleased to have his Boss's approval, and as Gibbs expected, he shifted the topic to avoid his own emotional reaction. "You know FLETC _does_ seem like a natural for you, between being supervisory agent for so long and a Gunny before that. You know we're counting on you to start whipping the recruits into shape so it doesn't take a dozen tries to find a good one."

Gibbs glanced back at his second, his appraisal, as always now, hidden from Tony by his blindness, but just as likely now sensed in his own variation of Gibbs' gut, and considered DiNozzo's words: _"we're counting on you..."_

'_We.' As in, Tony and Vance. Assistant Director DiNozzo and Director Vance..._

He shook it off and grumbled, "I may have to take my frustrations with all those past losers out on them."

Tony's barked laugh broke the quiet of the basement. "Like you didn't on us?"

"Not even close, DiNozzo." But he was grinning – audibly – when he said it. He chuckled at Tony's melodramatic shiver in response, and let the changes they'd both be facing mid-week play out in his mind. Both of them had entered law enforcement with young men's minds, never thinking too far into the future and both lasting on the job long after many local LEOs would, having first retirement available at age thirty-five or forty. Now, both of them were heading down paths in just a couple days that they hadn't given serious thought until recent years, when they found that no matter the cases or the dirtbags or the danger, they'd managed to survive fieldwork, largely intact.

And Tony – he'd grown from the brash but insecure kid he'd snapped up from nearby Baltimore ... Gibbs had been through the worst of it with Tony and was burning with pride for what the kid had done, not only after shaking off the coma but before he'd been hurt, in every part of his work with NCIS.

"You know, I had a feeling you'd be running the place sooner or later," he volunteered with a chuckle, for once surprising DiNozzo with his thoughts. "When you stepped off that elevator into the squad room, that very first time, it was as if you were already bigger than the place, even brighter than the damn orange walls. I've never seen that happen, before or since."

"Says the force of nature," Tony tossed back, sounding a bit awkward with his Boss's unexpected admiration. "I always figured you'd willed the walls to turn themselves into that color, some kind of display of power." His joke was a bit lame for DiNozzo, but he was thrown by Gibbs' words. It was another moment before he admitted, "Ducky told me once, not too long after I started, that I was a lot like you when _you_ started there. I couldn't see how."

"Hm. For once, I think Ducky got it wrong." Gibbs turned back to the wood again, the long strokes of the plane making a soft, hypnotic sound. He'd seen Tony's reaction to his quiet words as he turned, and knew that DiNozzo took it the wrong way. "You were more like Mike," he explained.

"Franks?"

Gibbs glanced back up at the surprised expression. "Um-hmm."

He watched the changes on the man's face as Tony considered his words, and saw his understanding. If anyone knew how he felt about Mike Franks, and why, it was DiNozzo, his own second. Gibbs knew he owed him this, too – after all, it was a week of changes for them both, and he hadn't always taken the time he should have with Tony. He always told himself that the younger man must know, deep down, how proud he was of him, all the while knowing that Tony would rarely allow himself to assume anything but the worst, even after so many years. _Well, hell, it's the day to make that right,_ Gibbs thought, taking another mouthful of Jack to help the process.

"Maybe my gut knew it before I did, and told me to get you a job here. When it was just the two of us, at first, I didn't really see it. Maybe a little of it appeared, when Viv worked with us, or after Kate came along. But there was no question," Gibbs chuckled at the memory, "when you first had McGee in your sights. Once you had a Probie ..." he shook his head, almost fondly. "Some of the things you said or did ... it was like you were channeling Mike, way before you ever met him."

"Really...?" Tony considered – then grinned.

"Well, Mike, with a personal shopper and a hair ... guy," Gibbs relaxed into a genuine laugh at what Franks might make of his comparison, "what do they call 'em?"

"Stylist."

"Yeah," Gibbs nodded, then went back to his work. "Mike and I, we were made for field work and, maybe, passing on some of the know-how we picked up along the way. You were too, Tony, but there was always the potential for more, with you. Maybe the way you got there wasn't what any of us would have chosen for you, but next week, you're moving upstairs, someplace neither Mike nor I could ever go." He paused, then added, "I hated to see you leave field work..."

"Not as much as you'd've hated me getting your six blindfolded," DiNozzo smirked, again with the early deflation of any lingering maudlin reactions to his blindness. It was the last thing he let go, the last insecurity he seemed to have around anyone at NCIS now, and it was only with his old team – Gibbs, Tim, Abby – even Ziva, in a slightly different form – as if he had failed them somehow. _Maybe one day that would be gone too_, Gibbs thought. The man certainly had managed to shake off a lot of old baggage, and in the circumstances, no one thought of him as anything but heroic. Still ... maybe he should remind him...

Gibbs' thoughts were interrupted by more feet on his porch, but this time more than one person, and both lighter – and more feminine – than DiNozzo's. Tony reacted too, his trademark grin suddenly appearing.

"Company?" Gibbs smirked. He knew Tony was onto him, that he'd known the team was up to something.

Tony chuckled. "How'd I do?"

"As the diversion? Not great. But the company was good, though."

Tony smiled, "yeah, Boss, for me too." In another moment, he laughed, "but why anyone insisted on calling it a surprise party is beyond me. They all knew that there was no way you wouldn't figure it all out."

"Well, I didn't know exactly what time you'd be here..."

DiNozzo's face lit up. "Really? Damn, wait 'til I tell them. Or – maybe I shouldn't; it's your party and they'd be disappointed to think you hadn't guessed every tiny detail."

"I didn't guess you'd be sent as a scout," Gibbs offered wryly.

DiNozzo's grin softened into a slightly more wistful smile. "Ziva knew I wanted to have a few minutes... " He shrugged, no real words for it, "to say thanks for everything. Not a public speech but just us, ya know? _She_ decided it would make a good diversion, but for what I'm not sure." He laughed self-consciously as he heard the door open and muted voices fill the entryway. "Guess I didn't even get to that yet."

"Close enough, DiNozzo." Gibbs stood again to blow the sawdust off his plane, and as he went to lock it in his tool cabinet, once again made child-proof for the unlikely event that little hands found their way downstairs without adult supervision, Gibbs heard the sweet, comic sounds filtering though his house, so much like those of decades ago...

"Mama, _here,_" an excited voice helped, quickly followed by a soft, warm one.

"Thank you, munchkin, but shhh... remember what we just said ..." The adult voice, its laughter not too well disguised, carried perfectly into the basement, as its owner suspected it would. "It is a _surprise_ for Poppy, so you must be very quiet."

The tiny giggle in response made both men smile. "Well, I suppose it took Ziva a few years to develop those ninja skills too, Boss," Tony shrugged, as if in apology. "She probably didn't start out too quiet, either."

"It'll come." Gibbs looked at his former second, and tried, "you know this party really should be more for you than me, for your promotion." He registered the sound of others crossing the porch to his door, and knew he had so much more to say to the man before him before everyone else descended on them. "You really should be proud of yourself, Tony. I am. We all are."

"Thanks, Boss," DiNozzo smiled softly, a slight coloring across his cheeks showing how much Gibbs' words meant to him. "I think they're adding me in, too, but this is mainly for you, today. Whether you planned it or not, you shaped the people we are, all of us. We all sort of adopted you as a big brother - father figure, probably 'cos none of us had Ward Cleaver at home telling us right from wrong. It's not going to be the same without you in the squad room, you know. For any of us."

"I'll be twenty minutes away at Cheltenham," Gibbs tried to gripe, forcing back the emotion pressing him.

"I know – but it's still not the same. Hell, for starters, we'll all get back and forth faster between floors, what with the elevators moving from floor to floor withou..."

The head-slap was smart but affectionate – and resulted in a wide grin from the recipient. "I happen to have it on good authority you stop that elevator between floors now as often as I ever did."

"Exaggeration, Boss," DiNozzo's grin didn't fade. "Just keeping it in shape for when you come back and visit."

The growing sounds of stifled giggles, the door, even more people moving across the floor above and the poorly quieted voices meant their discussion was done – for now. "You'd think none of them had ever run an op before," Gibbs grumbled at a thump and a giggle combination – but Tony could still hear that almost-disguised thread of emotion in the older man's voice.

His grin twitched only a little. "Well, what now, Boss? Make a last stand here, or go meet the onslaught?"

At the sudden sound of the door opening, a soft voice admonishing, "be careful – hold the rail" and the syncopated pat-pat of toddler feet making their way down the steps one at a time, Gibbs laughed. "Don't think we have a choice."

This Saturday afternoon would be different from so many he'd spent here over the years, both those dark, painful years after Shannon and Kelly, and more the recent ones leading to this, as his 'adopted' family worked their way further and further into his heart. This Saturday would become one of shared celebration and laughter and, of course, memories spoken among those who had lost friends and more. But in the end, with the smile of settled satisfaction DiNozzo now wore, the growing sounds of the festivities upstairs and the soft, small hand trailing down his bannister, Gibbs decided it was all turning out better than he could have ever imagined – and he clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder as he went past to stand at the steps and open his arms to greet his beaming, tiny guest...


End file.
